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THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 



THE TEMPTING OF 
TAVERNAKE 


BY 

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM 

II 

AUTHOR OF “ THE MOVING FINGER,” “ THE LOST AMBASSADOR,” 

“havoc,” etc. 


BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1911 


Copyright^ 1911., 

By Little, Brown, and Company. 
All rights reserved 


I 

'I 







THE UNIYEESITT PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, V. B. A. 


©CI.A280771 


CONTENTS 


BOOK ONE 

Chapter Page 

I Despair and Interest 1 

II A Tete-A-Tete Supper 13 

III An Unpleasant Meeting ... . . 27 

IV Breakfast with Beatrice 36 

V Introducing Mrs. Wenham Gardner . 47 

VI Questions and Answers 63 

VII Mr. Pritchard of New York .... 74 

VIII Woman’s Wiles 80 

IX The Plot Thickens 95 

X The Joy of Battle 107 

XI A Bewildering Offer 117 

XII Tavernake Blunders 129 

XIII An Evening Call 140 

XIV A Warning from Mr. Pritchard , , 145 

XV General Discontent 159 

XVI An Offer of Marriage 167 

XVII The Balcony at Imano’s 175 

XVIII A Midnight Adventure 188 

XIX Tavernake Intervenes 198 

XX A Pleasant Reunion 206 


vi CONTENTS 

Chapter Page 

XXI Some Excellent Advice 22 S 

XXII Dinner with Elizabeth 235 

XXIII On an Errand of Chivalry .... 246 

XXIV Close to a Tragedy 252 

XXV The Madman Talks 263 

XXVI A Crisis 269 

XXVII Tavern AKE Chooses 275 


BOOK TWO 


I New Horizons 283 

II The Simple Life ........ 291 

III Old Friends Meet 296 

IV Pritchard’s Good News 307 

V Beatrice Refuses 313 

VI Understanding Comes Too Late . . . 324 

VTI In a Virgin Country 333 

VIII Back to Civilization 340 


THE 

TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


BOOK ONE 

CHAPTER I 

DESPAIR AND INTEREST 

They stood upon the roof of a London boarding-house in 
the neighborhood of Russell Square — one of those grim 
shelters, the refuge of Transatlantic curiosity and British 
penury. The girl — she represented the former race — 
was leaning against the frail palisading, with gloomy ex- 
pression and eyes set as though in fixed contemplation of 
the uninspiring panorama. The young man — unmis- 
takably, uncompromisingly English — stood with his 
back to the chimney a few feet away, watching his com- 
panion. The silence between them was as yet unbroken, 
had lasted, indeed, since she had stolen away from the 
shabby drawing-room below, where a florid lady with a 
raucous voice had been shouting a music-hall ditty. 
Close upon her heels, but without speech of any sort, he 
had followed. They were almost strangers, except for 
the occasional word or two of greeting which the etiquette 
of the establishment demanded. Yet she had accepted 
his espionage without any protest of word or look. He 
had followed her with a very definite object. Had she 
surmised it, he wondered? She had not turned her head 
or vouchsafed even a single question or remark to him 


2 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

since he had pushed his way through the trap-door al- 
most at her heels and stepped out on to the leads. Yet 
it seemed to him that she must guess. 

Below them, what seemed to be the phantasm of a 
painted city, a wilderness of housetops, of smoke-wreathed 
spires and chimneys, stretched away to a murky, blood- 
red horizon. Even as they stood there, a deeper color 
stained the sky, an angry sun began to sink into the 
piled up masses of thick, vaporous clouds. The girl 
watched with an air of sullen yet absorbed interest. Her 
companion’s eyes were still fixed wholly and critically 
upon her. Who was she, he wondered? Why had she 
left her own country to come to a city where she seemed 
to have no friends, no manner of interest? In that cara- 
vansary of the world’s stricken ones she had been an al- 
most unnoticed figure, silent, indisposed for conversation, 
not in any obvious manner attractive. Her clothes, not- 
withstanding their air of having come from a first-class 
dressmaker, were shabby and out of fashion, their ex- 
treme neatness in itself pathetic. She was thin, yet not 
without a certain buoyant lightness of movement always 
at variance with her tired eyes, her ceaseless air of dejec- 
tion. And withal she was a rebel. It was written in her 
attitude, it was evident in her lowering, militant expres- 
sion, the smouldering fire in her eyes proclaimed it. Her 
long, rather narrow face was gripped between her hands; 
her elbows rested upon the brick parapet. She gazed at 
that world of blood-red mists, of unshapely, grotesque 
buildings, of strange, tawdry colors; she listened to the 
medley of sounds — crude, shrill, insistent, something 
like the groaning of a world stripped naked — and she 
had all the time the air of one who hates the thing she 
looks upon. 


DESPAIR AND INTEREST 3 

Tavernake, whose curiosity concerning his companion 
remained unappeased, decided that the moment for 
speech had arrived. He took a step forward upon the 
soft, pulpy leads. Even then he hesitated before he 
finally committed himself. About his appearance little 
was remarkable save the general air of determination 
which gave character to his undistinguished features. He 
was something above the medium height, broad-set, and 
with rather more thick black hair than he knew how to 
arrange advantageously. He wore a shirt which was 
somewhat frayed, and an indifferent tie; his boots were 
heavy and clumsy; he wore also a suit of ready-made 
clothes with the air of one who knew that they were 
ready-made and was satisfied with them. People of a 
nervous or sensitive disposition would, without doubt, 
have found him irritating but for a certain nameless gift 
— an almost Napoleonic concentration upon the things 
of the passing moment, which was in itself impressive and 
which somehow disarmed criticism. 

“About that bracelet!” he said at last. 

She moved her head and looked at him. A young man 
of less assurance would have turned and fled. Not so 
Tavernake. Once sure of his ground he was immovable. 
There was murder in her eyes but he was not even dis- 
turbed. 

“I saw you take it from the little table by the piano, 
you know,” he continued. “It was rather a rash thing 
to do. Mrs. Fitzgerald was looking for it before I reached 
the stairs. I expect she has called the police in by now.” 

Slowly her hand stole into the depths of her pocket and 
emerged. Something flashed for a moment high over her 
head. The young man caught her wrist just in time, 
caught it in a veritable grip of iron. Then, indeed, the 


4 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

evil fires flashed from her eyes, her teeth gleamed white, 
her bosom rose and fell in a storm of angry, unuttered 
sobs. She was dry-eyed and still speechless, but for all 
that she was a tigress. A strangely-cut silhouette they 
formed there upon the housetops, with a background of 
empty sky, their feet sinking in the warm leads. 

“I think I had better take it,” he said. “Let go.” 

Her fingers yielded the bracelet — a tawdry, ill-designed 
affair of rubies and diamonds. He looked at it disap- 
provingly. 

“That *s an ugly thing to go to prison for,” he remarked, 
slipping it into his pocket. “It was a stupid thing to do, 
anyhow, you know. You could n’t have got away with 
it — unless,” he added, looking over the parapet as though 
struck with a sudden idea, “unless you had a confederate 
below.” 

He heard the rush of her skirts and he was only just in 
time. Nothing, in fact, but a considerable amount of 
presence of mind and the full exercise of a strength which 
was continually providing surprises for his acquaintances, 
was sufficient to save her. Their struggles upon the very 
edge of the roof dislodged a brick from the palisading, 
which went hurtling down into the street. They both 
paused to watch it, his arms still gripping her and one 
foot pressed against an iron rod. It was immediately 
after they had seen it pitch harmlessly into the road that 
a new sensation came to this phlegmatic young man. For 
the first time in his life, he realized that it was possible to 
feel a certain pleasurable emotion in the close grasp of a 
being of the opposite sex. Consequently, although she 
had now ceased to struggle, he kept his arms locked 
around her, looking into her face with an interest intense 
enough, but more analytical than emotional, as though 


DESPAIR AND INTEREST 


5 

seeking to discover the meaning of this curious throbbing 
of his pulses. She herself, as though exhausted, remained 
quite passive, shivering a little in his grasp and breathing 
like a hunted animal whose last hour has come. Their 
eyes met; then she tore herself away. 

“You are a hateful person,” she said deliberately, “a 
hateful, interfering person. I detest you.” 

“I think that we will go down now,” he replied. 

He raised the trap-door and glanced at her significantly. 
She held her skirts closely together and passed through it 
without looking at him. She stepped lightly down the 
ladder and without hesitation descended also a fiight of 
uncarpeted attic stairs. Here, however, upon the land- 
ing, she awaited him with obvious reluctance. 

“Are you going to send for the police.'^” she asked with- 
out looking at him. 

“No,” he answered. 

“Why not?” 

“If I had meant to give you away I should have told 
Mrs. Fitzgerald at once that I had seen you take her 
bracelet, instead of following you out on to the roof.” 

“Do you mind telling me what you do propose to do, 
then?” she continued still without looking at him, still 
without the slightest note of appeal in her tone. 

He withdrew the bracelet from his pocket and balanced 
it upon his finger. 

“I am going to say that I took it for a joke,” he de- 
clared. 

She hesitated. 

“Mrs. Fitzgerald’s sense of humor is not elastic,” she 
warned him. 

“She will be very angry, of course,” he assented, “but 
she will not believe that I meant to steal it.” 


6 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

The girl moved slowly a few steps away. 

“I suppose that I ought to thank you,” she said, still 
with averted face and sullen manner. “You have really 
been very decent. I am much obliged.” 

“Are you not coming down?” he asked. 

“Not at present,” she answered. “I am going to my 
room.” 

He looked around the landing on which they stood, at 
the miserable, uncarpeted floor, the ill-painted doors on 
which the long-forgotten varnish stood out in blisters, the 
jumble of dilapidated hot- water cans, a mop, and a medley 
of brooms and rags all thrown down together in a corner. 

“But these are the servants’ quarters, surely,” he 
remarked. 

“They are good enough for me; my room is here,” she 
told him, turning the handle of one of the doors and dis- 
appearing. The prompt turning of the key sounded, he 
thought, a little ungracious. 

With the bracelet in his hand, Tavernake descended 
three more flights of stairs and entered the drawing-room 
of the private hotel conducted by Mrs. Raithby Lawrence, 
whose husband, one learned from her frequent reiteration 
of the fact, had once occupied a distinguished post in the 
Merchant Service of his country. The disturbance fol- 
lowing upon the disappearance of the bracelet was evi- 
dently at its height. There were at least a dozen people 
in the room, most of whom were standing up. The central 
figure of them all was Mrs. Fitzgerald, large and florid, 
whose yellow hair with its varied shades frankly admitted 
its indebtedness to peroxide; a lady of the dashing type, 
who had once made her mark in the music-halls, but was 
now happily married to a commercial traveler who was 
seldom visible. Mrs. Fitzgerald was talking. 


DESPAIR AND INTEREST 


7 


“In respectable boarding-houses, Mrs. Lawrence,” she 
declared with great emphasis, “thefts may sometimes 
take place, I will admit, in the servants’ quarters, and with 
all their temptations, poor things, it ’s not so much to be 
wondered at. But no such thing as this has ever hap- 
pened to me before — to have jewelry taken almost from 
my person in the drawing-room of what should be a well- 
conducted establishment. Not a servant in the room, re- 
member, from the moment I took it off until I got up from 
the piano and found it missing. It ’s your guests you ’ve 
got to look after, Mrs. Lawrence, sorry to say it though I 
am.” 

Mrs. Lawrence managed here, through sheer loss of 
breath on the part of her assailant, to interpose a tearful 
protest. 

“I am quite sure,” she protested feebly, “that there is 
not a person in this house who would dream of stealing 
anything, however valuable it was. I am most particular 
always about references.” 

“Valuable, indeed!” Mrs. Fitzgerald continued with 
increased volubility. “I ’d have you understand that I 
am not one of those who wear trumpery jewelry. Thirty- 
five guineas that bracelet cost me if it cost a penny, and if 
my husband were only at home I could show you the 
receipt.” 

Then there came an interruption of almost tragical in- 
terest. Mrs. Fitzgerald, her mouth still open, her stream 
of eloquence suddenly arrested, stood with her artificially 
darkened eyes riveted upon the stolid, self-composed 
figure in the doorway. Every one else was gazing in the 
same direction. Tavernake was holding the bracelet in 
the palm of his hand. 

“Thirty-five guineas!” he repeated. “If I had known 


8 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


that it was worth as much as that, I do not think that I 
should have dared to touch it.” 

“You — you took it!” Mrs. Fitzgerald gasped. 

“I am afraid,” he admitted, “that it was rather a 
clumsy joke. I apologize, Mrs. Fitzgerald. I hope you 
did not really imagine that it had been stolen.” 

One was conscious of the little thrill of emotion which 
marked the termination of the episode. Most of the 
people not directly concerned were disappointed; they 
were being robbed of their excitement, their hopes of a 
tragical denouement were frustrated. Mrs. Lawrence’s 
worn face plainly showed her relief. The lady with the 
yellow hair, on the other hand, who had now succeeded 
in working herself up into a towering rage, snatched the 
bracelet from the young man’s fingers and with a purple 
flush in her cheeks was obviously struggling with an in- 
tense desire to box his ears. 

“That’s not good enough for a tale!” she exclaimed 
harshly. “ 1 tell you I don’t believe a word of it. Took it 
for a joke, indeed! I only wish my husband were here; 
he ’d know what to do.” 

“ Your husband could n’t do much more than get your 
bracelet back, ma’am,” Mrs. Lawrence replied with acer- 
bity. “Such a fuss and calling every one thieves, too! 
I ’d be ashamed to be so suspicious.” 

Mrs. Fitzgerald glared haughtily at her hostess. 

“ It ’s all very well for those that don’t possess any 
jewelry and don’t know the value of it, to talk,” she de- 
clared, with her eyes fixed upon a black jet ornament 
which hung from the other woman’s neck. “What I say 
is this, and you may just as well hear it from me now as 
later. I don’t believe this cock-and-bull story of Mr. 
Tavernake’s. Them as took my bracelet from that table 


DESPAIR AND INTEREST 


9 

meant keeping it, only they had n’t the courage. And I ’m 
not referring to you, Mr. Tavernake,” the lady continued 
vigorously, “because I don’t believe you took it, for all 
your talk about a joke. And whom you may be shielding 
it would n’t take me two guesses to name, and your mo- 
tive must be clear to every one. The common hussy!” 

“You are exciting yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Fitz- 
gerald,” Tavernake remarked. “Let me assure you that 
it was I who took your bracelet from that table.” 

Mrs. Fitzgerald regarded him scornfully. 

“Do you expect me to believe a tale like that?” she 
demanded. 

“Why not?” Tavernake replied. “It is the truth. I 
am sorry that you have been so upset — ” 

“ It is not the truth ! ” 

More sensation! Another unexpected entrance! Once 
more interest in the affair was revived. After all, the 
lookers-on felt that they were not to be robbed of their 
tragedy. An old lady with yellow cheeks and jet black 
eyes leaned forward with her hand to her ear, anxious not 
to miss a syllable of what was coming. Tavernake bit his 
lip; it was the girl from the roof who had entered the 
room. 

“I have no doubt,” she continued in a cool, clear tone, 
“that Mrs. Fitzgerald’s first guess would have been cor- 
rect. I took the bracelet. I did not take it for a joke, I 
did not take it because I admire it — I think it is hide- 
ously ugly. I took it because I had no money.” 

She paused and looked around at them all, quietly, yet 
with something in her face from which they all shrank. 
She stood where the light fell full upon her shabby black 
gown and dejected-looking hat. The hollows in her pale 
cheeks, and the faint rims under her eyes, were clearly 


10 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


manifest; but notwithstanding her fragile appearance, 
she held herself with composure and even dignity. Twenty 
— thirty seconds must have passed whilst she stood there, 
slowly finishing the buttoning of her gloves. No one at- 
tempted to break the silence. She dominated them all — 
they felt that she had something more to say. Even Mrs. 
Fitzgerald felt a weight upon her tongue. 

“It was a clumsy attempt,” she went on. “I should 
have had no idea where to raise money upon the thing, 
but I apologize to you, nevertheless, Mrs. Fitzgerald, for 
the anxiety which my removal of your valuable property 
must have caused you,” she added, turning to the owner 
of the bracelet, whose cheeks were once more hot with 
anger at the contempt in the girl’s tone. “I suppose I 
ought to thank you, Mr. Tavernake, also, for your well- 
meant effort to preserve my character. In future, that 
shall be my sole charge. Has any one anything more to 
say to me before I go?” 

Somehow or other, no one had. Mrs. Fitzgerald was 
irritated and fuming, but she contented herself with a 
snort. Her speech was ready enough as a rule, but there 
was a look in this girl’s eyes from which she was glad 
enough to turn away. Mrs. Lawrence made a weak at- 
tempt at a farewell. 

“I am sure,” she began, “we are all sorry for what ’s 
occurred and that you must go — not that perhaps it 
is n’t better, under the circumstances,” she added hastily. 
“As regards — ” 

“There is nothing owing to you,” the girl interrupted 
calmly. “You may congratulate yourself upon that, for 
if there were you would not get it. Nor have I stolen any- 
thing else.” 

“About your luggage?” Mrs. Lawrence asked. 


DESPAIR AND INTEREST 


II 


“When I need it, I will send for it,” the girl replied. 

She turned her back upon them and before they realized 
it she was gone. She had, indeed, something of the grand 
manner. She had come to plead guilty to a theft and she 
had left them all feeling a little like snubbed children. 
Mrs. Fitzgerald, as soon as the spell of the girl’s presence 
was removed, was one of the first to recover herself. She 
felt herself beginning to grow hot with renewed indigna- 
tion. 

“A thief!” she exclaimed looking around the room. 
“Just an ordinary self -convicted thief! That’s what I 
call her, and nothing else. And here we all stood like a 
lot of ninnies. Why, if I ’d done my duty I ’d have locked 
the door and sent for a policeman.” 

“Too late now, anyway,” Mrs. Lawrence declared. 
“She ’s gone for good, and no mistake. Walked right out 
of the house. I heard her slam the front door.” 

“And a good job, too,” Mrs. Fitzgerald affirmed. “We 
don’t want any of her sort here — not those who ’ve got 
things of value about them. I bet she did n’t leave 
America for nothing.” 

A little gray-haired lady, who had not as yet spoken, 
and who very seldom took part in any discussion at all, 
looked up from her knitting. She was desperately poor 
but she had charitable instincts. 

“I wonder what made her want to steal,” she remarked 
quietly. 

“A born thief,” Mrs. Fitzgerald declared with convic- 
tion, — “a real bad lot. One of your sly-looking ones, 
I call her.” 

The little lady sighed. 

“When I was better off,” she continued, “I used to 
help at a soup kitchen in Poplar. I have never forgotten 


12 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

a certain look we used to see occasionally in the faces of 
some of the men and women. I found out what it meant — 
it was hunger. Once or twice lately I have passed the 
girl who has just gone out, upon the stairs, and she al- 
most frightened me. She had just the same look in her 
eyes. I noticed it yesterday — it was just before dinner, 
too — but she never came down.” 

“She paid so much for her room and extra for meals,” 
Mrs. Lawrence said thoughtfully. “She never would have 
a meal unless she paid for it at the time. To tell you the 
truth, I was feeling a bit uneasy about her. She has n’t 
been in the dining-room for two days, and from what they 
tell me there ’s no signs of her having eaten anything in 
her room. As for getting anything out, why should she.? 
It would be cheaper for her here than anywhere, if she ’d 
got any money at all.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. The little old 
lady with the knitting looked down the street into the 
sultry darkness which had swallowed up the girl. 

“I wonder whether Mr. Tavernake knows anything 
about her,” some one suggested. 

But Tavernake was not in the room. 


CHAPTER II 

A TETE-A-TETE SUPPER 


Tavernake caught her up in New Oxford Street and fell 
at once into step with her. He wasted no time whatever 
upon preliminaries. 

“I should be glad/’ he said, “if you would tell me your 
name.” 

Her first glance at him was fierce enough to have ter- 
rified a different sort of man. Upon Tavernake it had 
absolutely no effect. 

“You need not unless you like, of course,” he went on, 
“but I wish to talk to you for a few moments and I thought 
that it would be more convenient if I addressed you by 
name. I do not remember to have heard it mentioned 
at Blenheim House, and Mrs. Lawrence, as you know, 
does not introduce her guests.” 

By this time they had walked a score or so of paces 
together. The girl, after her first furious glance, had 
taken absolutely no notice of him except to quicken her 
pace a little. Tavernake remained by her side, however, 
showing not the slightest sense of embarrassment or an- 
noyance. He seemed perfectly content to wait and he 
had not in the least the appearance of a man who could 
be easily shaken off. From a fit of furious anger she passed 
suddenly and without warning to a state of half hysterical 
amusement. 

“You are a foolish, absurd person,” she declared. 
“Please go away. I do not wish you to walk with me.” 


14 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Tavernake remained imperturbable. She remembered 
suddenly his intervention on her behalf. 

“If you insist upon knowing,” she said, “my name at 
Blenheim House was Beatrice Burnay. I am much 
obliged to you for what you did for me there, but that is 
finished. I do not wish to have any conversation with 
you, and I absolutely object to your company. Please 
leave me at once.” 

“I am sorry,” he answered, “but that is not possible.” 

“Not possible?” she repeated, wonderingly. 

He shook his head. 

“You have no money, you have eaten no dinner, and 
I do not believe that you have any idea where you are 
going,” he declared, dehberately. 

Her face was once more dark with anger. 

“Even if that were the truth,” she insisted, “tell me 
what concern it is of yours? Your reminding me of these 
facts is simply an impertinence.” 

“I am sorry that you look upon it in that light,” he 
remarked, still without the least sign of discomposure. 
“We will, if you do not mind, waive the discussion for 
the moment. Do you prefer a small restaurant or a cor- 
ner in a big one? There is music at Frascati’s but there 
are not so many people in the smaller ones.” 

She turned half around upon the pavement and looked 
at him steadfastly. His personality was at last begin- 
ning to interest her. His square jaw and measured speech 
were indices of a character at least unusual. She recog- 
nized certain invincible qualities under an exterior abso- 
lutely commonplace. 

“Are you as persistent about everything in life?” she 
asked him. 

“ Why not? ” he replied. “ I try always to be consistent. ” 


15 


A TfeTE-A-TfeTE SUPPER 

‘‘What is your name?’* 

“Leonard Tavernake,” he answered, promptly. 

“Are you well ofiP — I mean moderately well off?” 

“I have a quite sufficient income.” 

“Have you any one dependent upon you?” 

“Not a soul,” he declared. “I am my own master in 
every sense of the word.” 

She laughed in an odd sort of way. 

“Then you shall pay for your persistence,” she said, — 
“I mean that I may as well rob you of a sovereign as the 
restaurant people.” 

“You must tell me now where you would like to go to,” 
he insisted. “It is getting late.” 

“I do not like these foreign places,” she replied. “I 
should prefer to go to the grill-room of a good restaurant.” 

“We will take a taxicab,” he announced. “You have 
no objection?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“If you have the money and don’t mind spending it,” 
she said, “I will admit that I have had all the walking 
I want. Besides, the toe of my boot is worn through and 
I find it painful. Yesterday I tramped ten miles trying 
to find a man who was getting up a concert party for the 
provinces.” 

“And did you find him?” he asked, hailing a cab. 

“Yes, I found him,” she answered, indifferently. “We 
went through the usual programme. He heard me sing, 
tried to kiss me and promised to let me know. Nobody 
ever refuses anything in my profession, you see. They 
promise to let you know.” 

“Are you a singer, then, or an actress?” 

“I am neither,” she told him. “I said ‘my profession* 
because it is the only one to which I have ever tried to 


i6 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


belong. I have never succeeded in obtaining an engage- 
ment in this country. I do not suppose that even if I had 
persevered I should ever have had one.” 

“You have given up the idea, then,” he remarked. 

“I have given it up,” she admitted, a httle curtly. 
“Please do not think, because I am allowing you to be 
my companion for a short time, that you may ask me 
questions. How fast these taxies go!” 

They drew up at their destination — a well-known 
restaurant in Regent Street. He paid the cabman and 
they descended a flight of stairs into the grill-room. 

“I hope that this place will suit you,” he said. “I have 
not much experience of restaurants.” 

She looked around and nodded. 

“Yes,” she replied, “I think that it will do.” 

She was very shabbily dressed, and he, although his 
appearance was by no means ordinary, was certainly not 
of the type which inspires immediate respect in even the 
grill-room of a fashionable restaurant. Nevertheless, they 
received prompt and almost officious service. Taver- 
nake, as he watched his companion’s air, her manner of 
seating herself and accepting the attentions of the head 
waiter, felt that nameless impulse which was responsible 
for his having followed her from Blenheim House and 
which he could only call curiosity, becoming stronger. 
An exceedingly matter-of-fact person, he was also by 
instinct and habit observant. He never doubted but 
that she belonged to a class of society from which the 
quests at the boarding-house where they had both lived 
were seldom recruited, and of which he himself knew little. 
He was not in the least a snob, this young man, but he 
found the fact interesting. Life with him was already 
very much the same as a ledger account — a matter of 


A TfiTE-A-TfiTE SUPPER 17 

debits and credits, and he had never failed to include 
among the latter that curious gift of breeding for which 
he himself, denied it by heritage, had somehow substi- 
tuted a complete and exceedingly rare naturalness. 

“I should hke,” she announced, laying down the carter 
“a fried sole, some cutlets, an ice, and black coffee.” 

The waiter bowed. 

“And for Monsieur?” 

Tavernake glanced at his watch; it was already ten 
o’clock. 

“I will take the same,” he declared. 

“And to drink?” 

She seemed indifferent. 

“Any light wine,” she answered, carelessly, “whit6 or 
red.” 

Tavernake took up the wine list and ordered sauterne. 
They were left alone in their corner for a few minutes, 
almost the only occupants of the place. 

“You are sure that you can afford this?” she asked, 
looking at him critically. “It may cost you a sovereign 
or thirty shillings.” 

He studied the prices on the menu. 

“I can afford it quite well and I have plenty of money 
with me,” he assured her, “but I do not think that it 
will cost more than eighteen shillings. While we are 
waiting for the sole, shall we talk? I can tell you, if you 
choose to hear, why I followed you from the boarding- 
house.” 

“I don’t mind listening to you,” she told him, “or I 
will talk with you about anything you like. There is only 
one subject which I cannot discuss; that subject is myself 
and my own doings.” 

Tavernake was silent for a moment. 


i8 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“That makes conversation a bit difficult,” he remarked. 

She leaned back in her chair. 

“After this evening,” she said, “I go out of your life 
as completely and finally as though I had never existed. 
I have a fancy to take my poor secrets with me. If you 
wish to talk, tell me about yourself. You have gone out 
of your way to be kind to me. I wonder why. It does n’t 
seem to be your role.” 

He smiled slowly. His face was fashioned upon broad 
lines and the relaxing of his lips lightened it wonderfully. 
He had good teeth, clear gray eyes, and coarse black hair 
which he wore a trifle long; his forehead was too massive 
for good looks. 

“No,” he admitted, “I do not think that benevolence 
is one of my characteristics.” 

Her dark eyes were turned full upon him; her red lips, 
redder than ever they seemed against the pallor of her 
cheeks and her deep brown hair, curled slightly. There 
was something almost insolent in her tone. 

“You understand, I hope,” she continued, “that you 
have nothing whatever to look for from me in return for 
this sum which you propose to expend for my entertain- 
ment?” 

. “I understand that,” he replied. 

“Not even gratitude,” she persisted. “I really do not 
feel grateful to you. You are probably doing this to 
gratify some selfish interest or curiosity. I warn you that I 
am quite incapable of any of the proper sentiments of life.” 

“Your gratitude would be of no value to me whatever,” 
he assured her. 

She was still not wholly satisfied. His complete stolid- 
ity frustrated every effort she made to penetrate beneath 
the surface. 


A TfeTE-A-TfiTE SUPPER 19 

“If I believed,” she went on, “that you were one of 
those men — the world is full of them, you know — who 
will help a woman with a reasonable appearance so long 
as it does not seriously interfere with their own comfort — ” 

“Your sex has nothing whatever to do with it,” he 
interrupted. “As to your appearance, I have not even 
considered it. I could not tell you whether you are beauti- 
ful or ugly — I am no judge of these matters. What I have 
done, I have done because it pleased me to do it.” 

“Do you always do what pleases you?” she asked. 

“Nearly always.” 

She looked him over again attentively, with an interest 
obviously impersonal, a trifle supercilious. 

“I suppose,” she remarked, “you consider yourself 
one of the strong people of the world?” 

“I do not know about that,” he answered. “I do not 
often think about myself.” 

“I mean,” she explained, “that you are one of those 
people who struggle hard to get just what they want in 
life.” 

His jaw suddenly tightened and she saw the likeness 
to Napoleon. 

“I do more than struggle,” he affirmed, “I succeed. 
If I make up my mind to do a thing, I do it; if I make 
up my min d to get a thing, I get it. It means hard work 
sometimes, but that is all.” 

For the first time, a really natural interest shone out 
of her eyes. The half sulky contempt with which she 
had received his advances passed away. She became at 
that moment a human being, self-forgetting, the heritage 
of her charms — for she really had a curious but very 
poignant attractiveness — suddenly evident. It was only 
a momentary lapse and it was entirely wasted. Not even 


20 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


one of the waiters happened to be looking that way, and 
Tavernake was thinking wholly of himself. 

“It is a good deal to say — that,” she remarked, re- 
flectively. 

“It is a good deal but it is not too much,” he declared. 
“Every man who takes life seriously should say it.” 

Then she laughed — actually laughed — and he had 
a vision of flashing white teeth, of a mouth breaking into 
pleasant curves, of dark mirth-lit eyes, lustreless no 
longer, provocative, inspiring. A vague impression as 
of something pleasant warmed his blood. It was a rare 
thing for him to be so stirred, but even then it was not 
sufficient to disturb the focus of his thoughts. 

“Tell me,” she demanded, “what do you do? What 
is your profession or work?” 

“I am with a firm of auctioneers and estate agents,” he 
answered readily, — “Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Com- 
pany the name is. Our offices are in Waterloo Place.” 

“You find it interesting?” 

“Of course,” he answered. “Interesting? Why not? 
I work at it.” 

“Are you a partner?” 

“No,” he admitted. “Six years ago I was a carpenter; 
then I became an errand boy in Mr. Dowling’s office — 
I had to learn the business, you see. To-day I am a sort 
of manager. In eighteen months’ time — perhaps before 
that if they do not offer me a partnership — I shall start 
for myself.” 

Once more the subtlest of smiles flickered at the cor- 
ners of her lips. 

“Do they know yet?” she asked, with faint irony. 

“Not yet,” he replied, with absolute seriousness. “ They 
might tell me to go, and I have a few things to learn yet. 


21 


A TfeTE-A-TfeTE SUPPER 

I would rather make experiments for some one else than 
for myself. I can use the results later; they will help me 
to make money.” 

She laughed softly and wiped the tears out of her eyes. 
They were really very beautiful eyes notwithstanding 
the dark rims encircling them. 

“If only I had met you before!” she murmured. 

“Why?” he asked. 

She shook her head. 

“Don’t ask me,” she begged. “It would not be good 
for your conceit, if you have any, to tell you.” 

“I have no conceit and I am not inquisitive,” he said, 
“but I do not see why you laughed.” 

Their period of waiting came to an end at this point. 
The fish was brought and their conversation became 
disjointed. In the silence which followed, the old shadow 
crept over her face. Once only it lifted. It was while 
they were waiting for the cutlets. She leaned towards 
him, her elbows upon the tablecloth, her face supported 
by her fingers. 

“ I think that it is time we left these generalities,” she 
insisted, “ and you told me something rather more per- 
sonal, something which I am very anxious to know. Tell 
me exactly why so self-centered a person as yourself should 
interest himself in a fellow-creature at all. It seems odd 
to me.” 

“It is odd,” he admitted, frankly. “I will try to ex- 
plain it to you but it will sound very bald, and I do not 
think that you will understand. I watched you a few 
nights ago out on the roof at Blenheim House. You were 
looking across the house-tops and you did n’t seem to be 
seeing anything at all really, and yet all the time I knew 
that you were seeing things I could n’t, you were under- 


22 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


standing and appreciating something which I knew noth- 
ing of, and it worried me. I tried to talk to you that 
evening, but you were rude.” 

“You really are a curious person,” she remarked. 
“Are you always worried, then, if you find that some one 
else is seeing things or understanding things which are 
outside your comprehension?” 

“Always,” he replied promptly. 

“You are too far-reaching,” she affirmed. “You want 
to gather everything into your life. You cannot. You 
will only be unhappy if you try. No man can do it. You 
must learn your limitations or suffer all your days.” 

“Limitations!” He repeated the words with measure- 
less scorn. “If I learn them at all,” he declared, with un- 
expected force, “it will be with scars and bruises, for noth- 
ing else will content me.” 

“We are, I should say, almost the same age,” she re- 
marked slowly. 

“I am twenty-five,” he told her. 

“I am twenty-two,” she said. “It seems strange that 
two people whose ideas of life are as far apart as the Poles 
should have come together like this even for a moment. 
I do not understand it at all. Did you expect that I should 
tell you just what I saw in the clouds that night? ” 

“No,” he answered, “not exactly. I have spoken of 
my first interest in you only. There are other things. I 
told a lie about the bracelet and I followed you out of the 
boarding-house and I brought you here, for some other — 
for quite a different reason.” 

“Tell me what it was,” she demanded. 

“I do not know it myself,” he declared solemnly. “I 
really and honestly do not know it. It is because I hoped 
that it might come to me while we were together, that I 


A TfiTE-A-TfiTE SUPPER 23 

am here with you at this moment. I do not like impulses 
which I do not understand.” 

She laughed at him a little scornfully. 

“After all,” she said, “although it may not have dawned 
upon you yet, it is probably the same wretched reason. 
You are a man and you have the poison somewhere in 
your blood. I am really not bad-looking, you know.” 

He looked at her critically. She was a little over-slim, 
perhaps, but she was certainly wonderfully graceful. 
Even the poise of her head, the manner in which she 
leaned back in her chair, had its individuality. Her 
features, too, were good, though her mouth had grown a 
trifle hard. For the first time the dead pallor of her 
cheeks was relieved by a touch of color. Even Tavernake 
realized that there were great possibilities about her. 
Nevertheless, he shook his head. 

“I do not agree with you in the least,” he asserted 
firmly. “Your looks have nothing to do with it. I am 
sure that it is not that.” 

“Let me cross-examine you,” she suggested. “Think 
carefully now. Does it give you no pleasure at all to be 
sitting here alone with me?” 

He answered her deliberately; it was obvious that he 
was speaking the truth. 

“I am not conscious that it does,” he declared. “The 
only feeling I am aware of at the present moment in con- 
nection with you, is the curiosity of which I have already 
spoken.” 

She leaned a little towards him, extending her very 
shapely fingers. Once more the smile at her lips trans- 
formed her face. 

“Look at my hand,” she said. “Tell me — wouldn’t 
you like to hold it just for a minute, if I gave it you?” 


24 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Her eyes challenged his, softly and yet imperiously. 
His whole attention, however, seemed to be absorbed by 
her finger-nails. It seemed strange to him that a girl in 
her straits should have devoted so much care to her hands. 

“No,’’ he answered deliberately, “I have no wish to 
hold your hand. Why should I?” 

“Look at me,” she insisted. 

He did so without embarrassment or hesitation, — it 
was more than ever apparent that he was entirely truth- 
ful. She leaned back in her chair, laughing softly to her- 
self. 

“Oh, my friend Mr. Leonard Tavernake,” she ex- 
claimed, “if you were not so crudely, so adorably, so 
miraculously truthful, what a prig, prig, prig, you would 
be! The cutlets at last, thank goodness! Your cross- 
examination is over. I pronounce you ‘Not Guilty!’” 

During the progress of the rest of the meal, they talked 
very little. At its conclusion, Tavernake discharged the 
bill, having carefully checked each item and tipped the 
waiter the exact amount which the man had the right to 
expect. They ascended the stairs together to the street, 
the girl lingering a few steps behind. On the pavement 
her fingers touched his arm. 

“I wonder, would you mind driving me down to the 
Embankment?” she asked almost humbly. “It was so 
close down there and I want some air.” 

This was an extravagance which he had scarcely con- 
templated, but he did not hesitate. He called a taxicab 
and seated himself by her side. Her manner seemed to 
have grown quieter and more subdued, her tone was no 
longer semi-belligerent. 

“I will not keep you much longer,” she promised. “I 
suppose I am not so strong as I used to be. I have had 


A t^:te-.A-t£te supper 25 

scarcely anything to eat for two days and conversation 
has become an unknown luxury. I think — it seems ab- 
surd — but I think that I am feeling a little faint.” 

“The air will soon revive you,” he said. “As to our 
conversation, I am disappointed. I think that you are 
very foolish not to tell me more about yourself.” 

She closed her eyes, ignoring his remark. They turned 
presently into a narrower thoroughfare. She leaned 
towards him. 

“You have been very good to me,” she admitted al- 
most timidly, “and I am afraid that I have not been very 
gracious. We shall not see one another again after this 
evening. I wonder — would you care to kiss me?” 

He opened his lips and closed them again. He sat quite 
still, his eyes fixed upon the road ahead, until he had 
strangled something absolutely absurd, something un- 
recognizable. 

“I would rather not,” he decided quietly. “I know you 
mean to be kind but that sort of thing — well, I don’t 
think I understand it. Besides,” he added with a sudden 
naive relief, as he clutched at a fugitive but plausible 
thought, “if I did you would not believe the things which 
I have been telling you.” 

He had a curious idea that she was disappointed as she 
turned her head away, but she said nothing. Arrived at 
the Embankment, the cab came slowly to a standstill. 
The girl descended. There was something new in 
her manner; she looked away from him when she 
spoke. 

“You had better leave me here,” she said. “I am 
going to sit upon that seat.” 

Then came those few seconds’ hesitation which were 
to count for a great deal in his life. The impulse which 


26 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


bade him stay with her was unaccountable but it con- 
quered. 

“If you do not object,” he remarked with some stiff- 
ness, “I should like to sit here with you for a little time. 
There is certainly a breeze.” 

She made no comment but walked on. He paid the man 
and followed her to the empty seat. Opposite, some il- 
luminated advertisements blazed their unsightly mes- 
sage across the murky sky. Between the two curving 
rows of yellow lights the river flowed — black, turgid, 
hopeless. Even here, though they had escaped from its 
absolute thrall, the far-away roar of the city beat upon 
their ears. She listened to it for a moment and then 
pressed her hands to the side of her head. 

“Oh, how I hate it!” she moaned. “The voices, al- 
ways the voices, calling, threatening, beating you away! 
Take my hands, Leonard Tavernake, — hold me.” 

He did as she bade him, clumsily, as yet without com- 
prehension. 

“You are not well,” he muttered. 

Her eyes opened and a flash of her old manner returned. 
She smiled at him, feebly but derisively. 

“You foolish boy!” she cried. “Can’t you see that I 
am dying? Hold my hands tightly and watch — watch! 
Here is one more thing you can see — that you cannot 
understand.” 

He saw the empty phial slip from her sleeve and fall on 
to the pavement. With a cry he sprang up and, carrying 
her in his arms, rushed out into the road. 


CHAPTER HI 


AN UNPLEASANT MEETING 

It was a quarter past eleven and the theatres were dis- 
gorging their usual nightly crowds. The most human 
thoroughfare in any of the world’s great cities was at its 
best and brightest. Everywhere commissionnaires were 
blowing their whistles, the streets were thronged with 
slowly-moving vehicles, the pavements were stirring with 
life. The little crowd which had gathered in front of the 
chemist’s shop was swept away. After all, none of them 
knew exactly what they had been waiting for. There was 
a rumor that a woman had fainted or had met with an 
accident. Certainly she had been carried into the shop 
and into the inner room, the door of which was still closed. 
A few passers-by had gathered together and stared and 
waited for a few minutes, but had finally lost interest and 
melted away. A human thoroughfare, this, indeed, one 
of the pulses of the great city beating time night and day 
to the tragedies of life. The chemist’s assistant, with 
impassive features, was serving a couple of casual cus- 
tomers from behind the counter. Only a few yards away, 
beyond the closed door, the chemist himself and a hastily 
summoned doctor fought with Death for the body of the 
girl who lay upon the floor, faint moans coming every 
now and then from her blue lips. 

Tavernake, whose forced inaction during that terrible 
struggle had become a burden to him, slipped softly from 


28 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


the room as soon as the doctor had whispered that the 
acute crisis was over, and passed through the shop out into 
the street, a solemn, dazed figure among the light-hearted 
crowd. Even in those grim moments, the man’s individu- 
alism spoke up to him. He was puzzled at his own action. 
He asked himself a question — not, indeed, with regret, 
but with something more than curiosity and actual self- 
probing — as though, by concentrating his mind upon his 
recent course of action, he would be able to understand 
the motives which had infiuenced him. Why had he 
chosen to burden himself with the care of this desperate 
young woman? Supposing she lived, what was to be- 
come of her? He had acquired a certain definite responsi- 
bility with regard to her future, for whatever the doctor 
and his assistant might do, it was his own promptitude 
and presence of mind which had given her the first chance 
of life. Without a doubt, he had behaved foolishly. Why 
not vanish into the crowd and have done with it? What 
was it to him, after all, whether this girl lived or died? He 
had done his duty — more than his duty. Why not dis- 
appear now and let her take her chance? His common 
sense spoke to him loudly; such thoughts as these beat 
upon his brain. 

Just for once in his life, however, his common sense ex- 
ercised an altogether subordinate position. He knew very 
well, even while he listened to these voices, that he was 
only counting the minutes until he could return. Having 
absolutely decided that the only reasonable course left 
for him to pursue was to return home and leave the girl 
to her fate, he found himself back inside the shop within 
a quarter of an hour. The chemist had just come out 
from the inner room, and looked up at his entrance. 

“She ’ll do now,” he announced. 


AN UNPLEASANT MEETING 29 

Tavernake nodded. He was amazed at his own sense 
of relief. 

“I am glad,” he declared. 

The doctor joined them, his black bag in his hand, pre- 
pared for departure. He addressed himself to Tavernake 
as the responsible person. 

“The young lady will be all right now,” he said, “but 
she may be rather queer for a day or two. Fortunately, 
she made the usual mistake of people who are ignorant 
of medicine and its effects — she took enough poison to 
kill a whole household. You had better take care of her, 
young man,” he added dryly. “She'll be getting into 
trouble if she tries this sort of thing again.” 

“Will she need any special attention during the next 
few days?” Tavernake asked. “The circumstances un- 
der which I brought her here are a little unusual, and I 
am not quite sure — ” 

“Take her home to bed,” the doctor interrupted, “and 
you 'll find she 'll sleep it off. She seems to have a splendid 
constitution, although she has let herself run down. If 
you need any further advice and your own medical man 
is not available, I will come and see her if you send for me. 
Camden, my name is; telephone number 734 Gerrard.” 

“I should be glad to know the amount of your fee, if 
you please,” Tavernake said. 

“My fee is two guineas,” the doctor answered. 

Tavernake paid him and he went away. Already the 
shadow of the tragedy was passing. The chemist had 
joined his assistant and was busy dispensing drugs be- 
hind his counter. 

“You can go in to the young lady, if you like,” he re- 
marked to Tavernake. “I dare say she 'll feel better to 
have some one with her.” 


30 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Tavemake passed slowly into the inner room, closing 
the door behind him. He was scarcely prepared for so 
piteous a sight. The girl’s face was white and drawn as 
she lay upon the couch to which they had lifted her. The 
fighting spirit was dead; she was in a state of absolute and 
complete collapse. She opened her eyes at his coming, 
but closed them again almost immediately — less, it 
seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than 
from sheer exhaustion. 

“I am glad that you are better,” he whispered crossing 
the room to her side. 

“Thank you,” she murmured almost inaudibly. 

Tavernake stood looking down upon her, and his sense 
of perplexity increased. Stretched on the hard horse- 
hair couch she seemed, indeed, pitifully thin and younger 
than her years. The scowl, which had passed from her 
face, had served in some measure as a disguise. 

“We shall have to leave here in a few minutes,” he said, 
softly. “They will want to close the shop.” 

“I am so sorry,” she faltered, “to have given you all 
this trouble. You must send me to a hospital or the 
workhouse — anywhere.” 

“You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can 
send?” he asked. 

“There is no one!” 

She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the 
end of her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting 
upon his hand. Presently, the rush of customers having 
ceased, the chemist came in. 

“I think, if I were you, I should take her home now,” 
he remarked. “She ’ll probably drop off to sleep very 
soon and wake up much stronger. I have made up a pre- 
scription here in case of exhaustion.” 


AN UNPLEASANT MEETING 31 

Tavernake stared at the man. Take her home! His 
sense of humor was faint enough but he found himself 
trying to imagine the faces of Mrs. Lawrence or Mrs. 
Fitzgerald if he should return with her to the boarding- 
house at such an hour. 

“I suppose you know where she lives?” the chemist 
inquired curiously. 

“Of course,” Tavernake assented. “You are quite 
right. I dare say she is strong enough now to walk as far 
as the pavement.” 

He paid the bill for the medicines, and they Hfted her 
from the couch. Between them she walked slowly into 
the outer shop. Then she began to drag on their arms 
and she looked up at the chemist a little piteously. 

“May I sit down for a moment?” she begged. “I feel 
faint.” 

They placed her in one of the cane chairs facing the 
door. The chemist mixed her some sal volatile. 

“I am sorry,” she murmured, “so sorry. In a few min- 
utes — I shall be better.” 

Outside, the throng of pedestrians had grown less, but 
from the great restaurant opposite a constant stream of 
motor-cars and carriages was slowly bringing away the 
supper guests. Tavernake stood at the door, watching 
them idly. The traffic was momentarily blocked and 
almost opposite to him a motor-car, the simple magnifi- 
cence of which filled him with wonder, had come to a 
standstill. The chauffeur and footman both wore livery 
which was almost white. Inside a swinging vase of 
flowers was suspended from the roof. A man and a woman 
leaned back in luxurious easy-chairs. The man was dark 
and had the look of a foreigner. The woman was very 
fair. She wore a long ermine cloak and a tiara of pearls. 


32 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Tavernake, whose interest in the passing throngs was 
entirely superficial, found himself for some reason curi- 
ously attracted by this glimpse into a world of luxury of 
which he knew nothing; attracted, too, by the woman’s 
delicate face with its uncommon type of beauty. Their 
eyes met as he stood there, stolid and motionless, framed 
in the doorway. Tavernake continued to stare, unmind- 
ful, perhaps unconscious, of the rudeness of his action. 
The woman, after a moment, glanced away at the shop- 
window. A sudden thought seemed to strike her. She 
spoke through the tube at her side and turned to her 
companion. Meanwhile, the footman, leaning from his 
place, held out his arm in warning and the car was slowly 
backed to the side of the pavement. The lady felt for a 
moment in a bag of white satin which lay upon the round 
table in front of her, and handed a slip of paper through 
the open window to the servant who had already descended 
and was standing waiting. He came at once towards the 
shop, passing Tavernake, who remained in the door- way. 

“Will you make this up at once, please.?” he directed, 
handing the paper across to the chemist. 

The chemist took it in his hand and turned away 
mechanically toward the dispensing room. Suddenly he 
paused, and, looking back, shook his head. 

“For whom is this prescription required?” he asked. 

“For my mistress,” the man answered. “Her name 
is there.” 

“Where is she?” 

“Outside; she is waiting for it.” 

“If she really wants this made up to-night,” the chemist 
declared, “she must come in and sign the book.” 

The footman looked across the counter, for a moment, 
a little blankly. 


AN UNPLEASANT MEETING 


33 

“ Am I to tell her that? ’’ he inquired. “ It ’s only a sleep- 
ing draught. Her regular chemist makes it up all right.’’ 

“That may be,” the man behind the counter replied, 
“but, you see, I am not her regular chemist. You had 
better go and tell her so.” 

The footman departed upon his errand without a glance 
at the girl who was sitting within a few feet of him. 

“I am very sorry, madam,” he announced to his mis- 
tress, “that the chemist declines to make up the pre- 
scription unless you sign the book.” 

“Very well, then, I will come,” she declared. 

The woman, handed from the automobile by her ser- 
vant, lifted her white satin skirts in both hands and 
stepped lightly across the pavement. Tavernake stood 
on one side to let her pass. She seemed to him to be, 
indeed, a creature of that other world of which he knew 
nothing. Her slow, graceful movements, the shimmer of 
her skirt, her silk stockings, the flashing of the diamond 
buckles upon her shoes, the faint perfume from her clothes, 
the soft touch of her ermine as she swept by — all these 
things were indeed strange to him. His eyes followed her 
with rapt interest as she approached the counter. 

“You wish me to sign for my prescription?” she asked 
the chemist. “I will do so, with pleasure, if it is neces- 
sary, only you must not keep me waiting long.” 

Her voice was very low and very musical; the slight 
smile which had parted her tired lips, was almost pathetic. 
Even the chemist felt himseK to be a human being. He 
turned at once to his shelves and began to prepare the 
drug. 

“I am sorry, madam, that it should have been necessary 
to fetch you in,” he said, apologetically. “My assistant 
will give you the book if you will kindly sign it.” 


34 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

The assistant dived beneath the counter, reappearing 
almost immediately with a black volume and a pen and 
ink. The chemist was engrossed upon his task; Taver- 
nake’s eyes were still riveted upon this woman, who 
seemed to him the most beautiful thing he had ever seen 
in life. No one was watching the girl. The chemist was 
the first to see her face, and that only in a looking glass. 
He stopped in the act of mixing his drug and turned 
slowly round. His expression was such that they all 
followed his eyes. The girl was sitting up in her chair, 
with a sudden spot of color burning in her cheeks, her 
fingers gripping the counter as though for support, her 
eyes dilated, unnatural, burning in their white setting 
with an unholy fire. The lady was the last to turn her 
head, and the bottle of eau-de-cologne which she had 
taken up from the counter, slipped with a crash to the 
floor. All expression seemed to pass from her face; the 
very life seemed drawn from it. Those who were watch- 
ing her saw suddenly an old woman looking at something 
of which she was afraid. 

The girl seemed to find an unnatural strength. She 
dragged herself up and turned wildly to Tavernake. 

“Take me away,” she cried, in a low voice. “Take me 
away at once.” 

The woman at the counter did not speak. Tavernake 
stepped quickly forward and then hesitated. The girl 
was on her feet now and she clutched at his arms. Her 
eyes besought him. 

“You must take me away, please,” she begged, hoarsely. 
“I am well now — quite well. I can walk.” 

Tavernake’s lack of imagination stood him in good 
stead then. He simply did what he was told, did it in 
perfectly mechanical fashion, without asking any ques- 


AN UNPLEASANT MEETING 


35 

tions. With the girl leaning heavily upon his arm, he 
stepped into the street and almost immediately into a 
passing taxicab which he had hailed from the threshold 
of the shop. As he closed the door, he glanced behind 
him. The woman was standing there, half turned towards 
him, still with that strange, stony look upon her lifeless 
face. The chemist was bending across the counter towards 
her, wondering, perhaps, if another incident were to be 
drawn into his night’s work. The eau-de-cologne was 
running in a little stream across the floor. 

“Where to, sir?” the taxicab driver asked Tavernake. 

“Where to?” Tavernake repeated. 

The girl was clinging to his arm. 

“TeU him to drive away from here,” she whispered, 
“to drive anywhere, but away from here.” 

“Drive straight on,” Tavernake directed, “along 
Fleet Street and up Holborn. I will give you the address 
later on.” 

The man changed his speed and their pace increased. 
Tavernake sat quite still, dumfounded by these amazing 
happenings. The girl by his side was clutching his arm, 
sobbing a little hysterically, holding him all the time as 
though in terror. 


CHAPTER IV 


BREAKFAST WITH BEATRICE 


The girl, awakened, perhaps, by the passing of some 
heavy cart along the street below, or by the touch of the 
sunbeam which lay across her pillow, first opened her 
eyes and then, after a preliminary stare around, sat up 
in bed. The events of the previous night slowly shaped 
themselves in her mind. She remembered everything up 
to the commencement of that drive in the taxicab. Some- 
time after that she must have fainted. And now — what 
had become of her? Where was she? 

She looked around her in ever-increasing surprise. 
Certainly it was the strangest room she had ever been in. 
The floor was dusty and innocent of any carpet; the 
window was bare and uncurtained. The walls were 
unpapered but covered here and there with strange- 
looking plans, one of them taking up nearly the whole 
side of the room — a very rough piece of work with little 
dabs of blue paint here and there, and shadings ar\d 
diagrams which were absolutely unintelligible. She her- 
seK was lying upon a battered iron bedstead, and she 
was wearing a very coarse nightdress. Her own clothes 
were folded up and lay upon a piece of brown paper on 
the floor by the side of the bed. To all appearance, the 
room was entirely unfurnished, except that in the middle 
of it was a hideous papier mache screen. 

After her first bewildered inspection of her surroimdings. 


BREAKFAST WITH BEATRICE 37 

it was upon this screen that her attention was naturally 
directed. Obviously it must be there to conceal some- 
thing. Very carefully she leaned out of bed until she was 
able to see around the corner of it. Then her heart gave 
a little jump and she was only just able to stifle an excla- 
mation of fear. Some one was sitting there — a man — 
sitting on a battered cane chair, bending over a rcll of 
papers which were stretched upon a rude deal table. She 
felt her cheeks grow hot. It must be Tavernake! Where 
had he brought her? What did his presence in the room 
mean? 

The bed creaked heavily as she regained her former 
position. A voice came to her from behind the screen. 
She knew it at once. It was Tavernake’s. 

“Are you awake?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered, — “yes, I am awake. Is that 
Mr. Tavernake? Where am I, please?” 

“First of all, are you better?” he inquired. 

“I am better,” she assured him, sitting up in bed and 
pulling the clothes to her chin. “I am quite well now. 
Tell me at once where I am and what you are doing over 
there.” 

“There is nothing to be terrifled about,” Tavernake 
answered. “To all effects and purposes, I am in another 
room. When I move to the door, as I shall do directly, 
I shall drag the screen with me. I can promise you — ” 

“Please explain everything,” she begged, “quickly. 
I am most — uncomfortable.” 

“At half -past twelve this morning,” Tavernake said, 
“I found myself alone in a taxicab with you, without 
any luggage or any idea where to go to. To make matters 
worse, you fainted. I tried two hotels but they refused 
to take you in; they were probably afraid that you were 


38 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

going to be ill. Then I thought of this room. I am 
employed, as you know, by a firm of estate agents. I do 
a great deal of work on my own account, however, which 
I prefer to do in secret, and unknown to any one. For 
that reason, I hired this room a year ago and I come 
here most evenings to work. Sometimes I stay late, so 
last month I bought a small bedstead and had it fixed up 
here. There is a woman who comes in to clean the room. 
I went to her house last night and persuaded her to come 
here. She undressed you and put you to bed. I am 
sorry that my presence here distresses you, but it is a 
large building and quite empty at night-time. I thought 
you might wake up and be frightened, so I borrowed this 
screen from the woman and have been sitting here.** 
“What, all night?** she gasped. 

“Certainly,** he answered. “The woman could not 
stop herself and this is not a residential building at all. 
All the lower floors are let for oflfices and warehouses, and 
there is no one else in the place until eight o*clock.** 

She put her hands to her head and sat quite still for 
a moment or two. It was really hard to take everything in. 
“Aren*t you very sleepy?** she asked, irrelevantly. 
“Not very,** he replied. I dozed for an hour, a little 
time ago. Since then I have been looking through some 
plans which interest me very much.** 

“Can I get up?** she inquired, timidly. 

“If you feel strong enough, please do,** he answered, 
with manifest relief. “I shall move towards the door, 
dragging the screen in front of me. You will find a brush 
and comb and some hairpins on your clothes. I could 
not think of anything else to get for you, but, if you will 
dress, we will walk to London Bridge Station, which is 
just across the way, and while I order some breakfast you 


BREAKFAST WITH BEATRICE 39 

can go into the ladies* room and do your hair properly. 
I did my best to get hold of a looking-glass, but it was 
quite impossible.’* 

The girl’s sense of humor was suddenly awake. She 
had hard work not to scream. He had evidently thought 
out all these details in painstaking fashion, one by one. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I will get up immediately, 
if you will do as you say.” 

He clutched the screen from the inside and dragged it 
towards the door. On the threshold, he spoke to her 
once more. 

“I shall sit upon the stairs just outside,” he announced. 

“I sha’n’t be more than five minutes,” she assured him. 

She sprang out of bed and dressed quickly. There was 
nothing beyond where the screen had been except a table 
covered with plans, and a particularly hard cane chair 
which she dragged over for her own use. As she dressed, 
she began to realize how much this matter-of-fact, unim- 
pressionable young man had done for her during the last 
few hours. The reflection affected her in a curious manner. 
She became afflicted with a shyness which she had not 
felt when he was in the room. When at last she had 
finished her toilette and opened the door, she was almost 
tongue-tied. He was sitting on the top step, with his 
back against the landing, and his eyes were closed. He 
opened them with a little start, however, as soon as he 
heard her approach. 

“I am glad you have not been long,” he remarked. 
“I want to be at my offlce at nine o’clock and I must go 
and have a bath somewhere. These stairs are rather 
steep. Please walk carefully.” 

She followed him in silence down three flights of stone 
steps. On each landing there were names upon the doors 


40 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

— two firms of hop merchants, a solicitor, and a commis- 
sion agent. The ground floor was some sort of warehouse, 
from which came a strong smell of leather. 

Tavernake opened the outside door with a small key 
and they passed into the street. 

“London Bridge Station is just across the way,” he 
said. “The refreshment room will be open and we can 
get some breakfast at once.” 

“What time is it?” she asked. 

“About half -past seven.” ' 

She walked by his side quite meekly, and although there 
were many things which she was longing to say, she 
remained absolutely without the power of speech. Except 
that he was looking a little crumpled, there was nothing 
whatever in his appearance to indicate that he had been 
up all night. He looked exactly as he had done on the 
previous day, he seemed even quite unconscious that 
there was anything unusual in their relations. As soon as 
they arrived at the station, he pointed to the ladies* 
waiting-room. 

“If you will go in and arrange your hair there,” he 
said, “I will go and order breakfast and have a shave. 
I will be back here in about twenty minutes. You had 
better take this.” 

He offered her a shilling and she accepted it without 
hesitation. As soon as he had gone, however, she looked 
at the coin in her hand in blank wonder. She had accepted 
it from him with perfect naturalness and without even 
saying “Thank you!” With a queer little laugh, she 
pushed open the swinging doors and made her way into 
the waiting-room. 

In hardly more than a quarter of an hour she emerged, to 
find Tavernake waiting for her. He had retied his tie. 


BREAKFAST WITH BEATRICE 41 

bought a fresh collar, had been shaved. She, too, had 
improved her appearance. 

“Breakfast is waiting this way,” he announced. 

She followed him obediently and they sat down at a 
small table in the station refreshment-room. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she asked, suddenly, “I must ask 
you something. Has anything like this ever happened 
to you before.?” 

“Nothing,” he assured her, with some emphasis. 

“You seem to take everything so much as a matter of 
course,” she protested. 

“Why not?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, a little feebly. 
“Only-” 

She found relief in a sudden and perfectly natural 
laugh. 

“Come,” he said, “that is better. I am glad that you 
feel like laughing.” 

“As a matter of fact,” she declared, “I feel much more 
like crying. Don’t you know that you were very foolish 
last night? You ought to have left me alone. Why 
did n’t you? You would have saved yourself a great 
deal of trouble.” 

He nodded, as though that point of view did, in some 
degree, commend itself to him. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “I suppose I should. I do not, 
even now, understand why I interfered. I can only 
remember that it did n’t seem possible not to at the time. 
I suppose one must have impulses,” he added, with a 
little frown. 

“The reflection,” she remarked, helping herself to 
another roll, “seems to annoy you.” 

“It does,” he confessed. “I do not like to feel im- 


42 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

pelled to do anything the reason for which is not apparent. 
I like to do just the things which seem likely to work out 
best for myself.” 

“How you must hate me!” she murmured. 

“No, I do not hate you,” he replied, “but, on the other 
hand, you have certainly been a trouble to me. First 
of all, I told a falsehood at the boarding-house, and I 
prefer always to tell the truth when I can. Then I followed 
you out of the house, which I disliked doing very much, 
and I seem to have spent a considerable portion of the time 
since, in your company, under somewhat extraordinary cir- 
cumstances. I do not understand why I have done this.” 

“I suppose it is because you are a very good-hearted 
person,” she remarked. 

“But I am not,” he assured her, calmly. “I am noth- 
ing of the sort. I have very little sympathy with good- 
hearted people. I think the world goes very much better 
when every one looks after himself, and the people who 
are not competent to do so go to the wall.” 

“It sounds a trifle selfish,” she murmured. 

“Perhaps it is. I have an idea that if I could phrase 
it differently it would become philosophy.” 

“Perhaps,” she suggested, smiling across the table at 
him, “you have really done all this because you like me.” 

“I am quite sure that it is not that,” he declared. “I 
feel an interest in you for which I cannot account, but 
it does not seem to me to be a personal one. Last night,” 
he continued, “when I was sitting there waiting, I tried 
to puzzle it all out. I came to the conclusion that it was 
because you represent something which I do not under- 
stand. I am very curious and it always interests me to 
learn. I believe that must be the secret of my interest 
in you.” 


BREAKFAST WITH BEATRICE 43 

“You are very complimentary,” she told him, mockingly. 
“I wonder what there is in the world which I could teach 
so superior a person as Mr. Tavernake?” 

He took her question quite seriously. 

“I wonder what there is myself,” he answered. “And 
yet, in a way, I think I know.” 

“Your imagination should come to the rescue,” she 
remarked. 

“I have no imagination,” he declared, gloomily. 

They were silent for several minutes; she was still 
studying him. 

“I wonder you don’t ask me any questions about my- 
self,” she said, abruptly. 

“There is only one thing,” he answered, “concerning 
which I am in the least curious. Last night in the chem- 
ist’s shop — ” 

“Don’t!” she begged him, with suddenly whitening 
face. “Don’t speak of that!” 

“Very well,” he replied, indifferently. “I thought 
that you were rather inviting my questions. You need 
not be afraid of any more. I really am not curious about 
personal matters; I find that my own life absorbs all my 
interests.” 

They had finished breakfast and he paid the bill. She 
began to put on her gloves. 

“Whatever happens to me,” she said, “I shall never 
forget that you have been very kind.” 

She hesitated for a moment and then she seemed to 
realize more completely how really kind he had been. 
There had been a certain crude delicacy about his actions 
which she had under-appreciated. She leaned towards 
him. There was nothing left this morning of that dis- 
figuring sullenness. Her mouth was soft; her eyes were 


44 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

bright, almost appealing. If Tavernake had been a 
judge of woman’s looks, he must certainly have found 
her attractive. 

“I am very, very grateful to you,” she continued, 
holding out her hand. “I shall always remember how 
kind you were. Good-bye!” 

“You are not going?” he asked. 

She laughed. 

“Why, you didn’t imagine that you had taken the 
care of me upon your shoulders for the rest of your life?” 
she demanded. 

“No, I didn’t imagine that,” he answered. “At the 
same time, what plans have you made? Where are you 
going?” 

“Oh! I shall think of something,” she declared, in- 
differently. 

He caught the gleam in her eyes, the sudden hope- 
lessness which fell like a cloud upon her face. He spoke 
promptly and with decision. 

“As a matter of fact,” he remarked, “you do not know 
yourself. You are just going to drift out of this place 
and very likely find your way to a seat on the Embank- 
ment again.” 

Her lips quivered. She had tried to be brave but it 
was hard. 

“Not necessarily,” she replied. “Something may turn 
up.” 

He leaned a little across the table towards her. 

“Listen,” he said, deliberately, “I will make a propo- 
sition to you. It has come to me during the last few 
minutes. I am tired of the boarding-house and I wish 
to leave it. The work which I do at night is becoming 
more and more important. I should like to take two 


BREAKFAST WITH BEATRICE 45 

rooms somewhere. If I take a third, would you care to 
call yourself what I called you to the charwoman last 
night — my sister? I should expect you to look after 
the meals and my clothes, and help me in certain other 
ways. I cannot give you much of a salary,” he con- 
tinued, “but you would have an opportunity during the 
daytime of looking out for some work, if that is what 
you want, and you would at least have a roof and plenty 
to eat and drink.” 

She looked at him in blank amazement. It was obvious 
that his proposition was entirely honest. 

“But, Mr. Tavernake,” she protested, “you forget 
that I am not really your sister.” 

“Does that matter?” he asked, without flinching. “I 
think you understand the sort of person I am. You 
would have nothing to fear from any admiration on my 
part — or anything of that sort,” he added, with some 
show of clumsiness. “Those things do not come in my 
life. I am ambitious to get on, to succeed and become 
wealthy. Other things I do not even think about.” 

She was speechless. After a short pause, he went on. 

“ I am proposing this arrangement as much for my own 
sake as for yours. I am very well read and I know most 
of what there is to be known in my profession. But 
there are other things concerning which I am ignorant. 
Some of these things I believe you could teach me.” 

Still speechless, she sat and looked at him for several 
moments. Outside, the station now was filled with a 
hurrying throng on their way to the day’s work. Engines 
were shrieking, bells ringing, the press of footsteps was 
unceasing. In the dark, ill-ventilated room itself there 
was the rattle of crockery, the yawning of discontented- 
looking young women behind the bar, young women 


46 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

with their hair still in curl-papers, as yet unprepared 
for their weak little assaults upon the good-nature or 
susceptibility of their customers. A queer corner of life 
it seemed. She looked at her companion and realized 
how fragmentary was her knowledge of him. There was 
nothing to be gathered from his face. He seemed to have 
no expression. He was simply waiting for her reply, 
with his thoughts already half engrossed upon the busi- 
ness of the day. 

“Really,’’ she began, “I—” 

He came back from his momentary wandering and 
looked at her. She suddenly altered the manner of her 
speech. It was a strange proposition, perhaps, but this 
was one of the strangest of men. 

“I am quite willing to try it,” she decided. “Will 
you tell me where I can meet you later on?” 

“I have an hour and a half for luncheon at one o’clock,” 
he said. “Meet me exactly at the southeast corner of 
Trafalgar Square. Would you like a little money?” he 
added, rising. 

“I have plenty, thank you,” she answered. 

He laid half-a-crown upon the table and made an entry 
in a small memorandum book which he drew from his 
pocket. 

“You had better keep this,” he said, “in case you 
want it. I am going to leave you alone here. You can 
find your way anywhere, I am sure, and I am in a hurry. 
At one o’clock, remember. I hope you will still be feeling 
better.” 

He put on his hat and went away without a backward 
glance. Beatrice sat in her chair and watched him out 
of sight. 


CHAPTER V 


INTRODUCING MRS. WENHAM GARDNER 

A VERY distinguished client was engaging the attention 
of Mr. Dowling, Senior, of Messrs. Dowling, Spence & 
Company, auctioneers and estate agents, whose offices 
were situated in Waterloo Place, Pall Mall. Mr. Dowling 
was a fussy little man of between fifty and sixty years, 
who spent most of his time playing golf, and who, al- 
though he studiously contrived to ignore the fact, had 
long since lost touch with the details of his business. 
Consequently, in the absence of Mr. Dowhng, Junior, 
who had developed a marked partiality for a certain bar 
in the locality, Tavernake was hastily summoned to the 
rescue from another part of the building, by a small boy 
violently out of breath. 

“Never see the governor in such a fuss,” the latter 
declared, confidentially, “She’s asking no end of ques- 
tions and he don’t know a thing.” 

“Who is the lady?” Tavernake asked, on the way 
downstairs. 

“Didn’t hear her name,” the boy replied. “She’s 
all right, though, I ^an tell you — a regular slap-up 
beauty. Such a motor-car, too! Flowers and tables 
and all sorts of things inside. By Jove, won’t the gov- 
ernor tear his hair if she goes before you get there!” 

Tavernake quickened his steps and in a few moments 
knocked at the door of the private office and entered. 


48 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

His chief welcomed him with a gesture of relief. The 
distinguished client of the firm, whose attention he was 
endeavoring to engage, had glanced toward the new- 
comer, at his first appearance, with an air of somewhat 
bored unconcern. Her eyes, however, did not immedi- 
ately leave his face. On the contrary, from the moment 
of his entrance she watched him steadfastly. Tavernake, 
stolid, unrufiled, at that time without comprehension, 
approached the desk. 

“This is — er — Mr. Tavernake, our manager,” Mr. 
Dowling announced, obsequiously. “In the absence of 
my son, he is in charge of the letting department. I have 
no doubt that he will be able to suggest something suit- 
able. Tavernake,” he continued, “this lady,” — he 
glanced at a card in front of him — “Mrs. Wenham 
Gardner of New York, is looking for a town house, and 
has been kind enough to favor us with an inquiry.” 

Tavernake made no immediate reply. Mr. Dowling 
was short-sighted, and in any case it would never have 
occurred to him to associate nervousness, or any form of 
emotion, with his responsible manager. The beautiful 
lady leaned back in her chair. Her lips were parted in 
a slight but very curious smile, her fingers supported her 
cheek, her eyelids were contracted as she looked into 
his face. Tavernake felt that their recognition was mutual. 
Once more he was back again in the tragic atmosphere 
of that chemist’s shop, with Beatrice, half fainting, in 
his arms, the beautiful lady turned to stone. It was an 
odd tableau, that, so vividly imprinted upon his memory 
that it was there before him at this very moment. There 
was mystery in this woman’s eyes, mystery and some- 
thing else. 

“I don’t seem to have come across anything down 


INTRODUCING MRS. GARDNER 49 

here which — er — particularly attracts Mrs. — Mrs. 
Wenham Gardner,” Mr. Dowling went on, taking up a 
little sheaf of papers from the desk. “I thought, perhaps, 
that the Bryanston Square house might have suited, but 
it seems that it is too small, far too small. Mrs. Gardner 
is used to entertaining, and has explained to me that she 
has a great many friends always coming and going from 
the other side of the water. She requires, apparently, 
twelve bedrooms, besides servants’ quarters.” 

“Your list is scarcely up to date, sir,” Tavernake 
reminded him. “If the rent is of no particular object, 
there is Grantham House.” 

Mr. Dowling’s face was suddenly illuminated. 

“Grantham House!” he exclaimed. “Precisely! Now 
I declare that it had absolutely slipped my memory for 
the moment — only for the moment, mind — that we 
have just had placed upon our books one of the most 
desirable mansions in the west end of London. A most 
valued client, too, one whom we are most anxious to 
oblige. Dear, dear me! It is very fortunate — very 
fortunate indeed that I happened to think of it, especially 
as it seems that no one had had the sense to place it upon 
my list. Tavernake, get the plans at once and show 
them to — er — to Mrs. Gardner.” 

Tavernake crossed the room in silence, opened a drawer, 
and returned with a stiff roll of papers, which he spread 
carefully out in front of this unexpected client. She 
spoke then for the first time since he had entered the 
room. Her voice was low and marvelously sweet. There 
was very little of the American accent about it, but some- 
thing in the intonation, especially toward the end of her 
sentences, was just a trifle un-English. 

“Where is this Grantham House.^*” she inquired. 


50 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Within a stone’s throw of Grosvenor Square,” Taver- 
nake answered, briskly. “It is really one of the most 
central spots in the west end. If you will allow me!” 

For the next few minutes he was very fluent indeed. 
With pencil in hand, he explained the plans, dwelt on 
the advantages of the location, and from the very reserve 
of his praise created an impression that the house he was 
describing was the one absolutely perfect domicile in the 
whole of London. 

“Can I look over the place?” she asked, when he had 
finished. 

“By all means,” Mr. Dowling declared, “by all means. 
I was on the point of suggesting it. It will be by far the 
most satisfactory proceeding. You will not be disap- 
pointed, my dear madam, I can assure you.” 

“I should like to do so, if I may, without delay,” she 
said. 

“There is no opportunity like the present,” Mr. Dowl- 
ing replied. “If you will permit me,” he added, rising, 
“ it will give me the greatest pleasure to escort you person- 
ally. My engagements for the rest of the day happen 
to be unimportant. Tavemake, let me have the keys 
of the rooms that are locked up. The caretaker, of course, 
is there in possession.” 

The beautiful visitor rose to her feet, and even that 
slight movement was accomplished with a grace unlike 
anything which Tavernake had ever seen before. 

“I could not think of troubling you so far, Mr. Dowl- 
ing,” she protested. “It is not in the least necessary 
for you to come yourself. Your manager can, perhaps, 
spare me a few minutes. He seems to be so thoroughly 
posted in all the details,” she added, apologetically, as 
she noticed the cloud on Mr. Dowling’s brow. 


INTRODUCING MRS. GARDNER 51 

“Just as you like, of course,” he declared. “Mr. 
Tavernake can go, by all means. Now I come to think 
of it, it certainly would be inconvenient for me to be away 
from the ojEce for more than a few minutes. Mr. Taver- 
nake has all the details at his fingers' ends, and I only 
hope, Mrs. Gardner, that he will be able to persuade you 
to take the house. Our client,” he added, with a bow, 
“would, I am sure, be delighted to hear that we had 
secured for him so distinguished a tenant.” 

She smiled at him, a delightful mixture of graciousness 
and condescension. 

“You are very good,” she answered. “The house 
sounds rather large for me but it depends so much upon 
circumstances. If you are ready, Mr. — ” 

“Tavernake,” he told her. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she continued, “my car is waiting 
outside and we might go on at once.” 

He bowed and held open the door for her, an office 
which he performed a little awkwardly. Mr. Dowling 
himself escorted her out on to the pavement. Tavernake 
stopped behind to get his hat, and passing out a moment 
afterwards, would have seated himseK in front beside 
the chauffeur but that she held the door of the car open 
and beckoned to him. 

“Will you come inside, please?” she insisted. “There 
are one or two questions which I might ask you as we go 
along. Please direct the chauffeur.” 

He obeyed without a word; the car glided off. As they 
swung round the first corner, she leaned forward from 
among the cushions of her seat and looked at him. Then 
Tavernake was conscious of new things. As though by 
inspiration, he knew that her visit to the office of Messrs. 
Dowling, Spence & Company had been no chance one. 


52 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

She remembered him, remembered him as the companion 
of Beatrice during that strange, brief meeting. It was an 
incomprehensible world, this, into which he had wan- 
dered. The woman’s face had lost her languid, gracious 
expression. There was something there almost akin to 
tragedy. Her fingers fell upon his arm and her touch was 
no light one. She was gripping him almost fiercely. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she said, “I have a memory for faces 
which seldom fails me. I have seen you before quite 
lately. You remember where, of course. Tell me the 
truth quickly, please.” 

The words seemed to leap from her lips. Beautiful and 
young though she undoubtedly was, her intense seriousness 
had suddenly aged her face. Tavernake was bewildered. 
He, too, was conscious of a curious emotional disturbance. 

“The truth? What truth do you mean? ” he demanded. 

“It was you whom I saw with Beatrice!” 

“You saw me one night about three weeks ago,” he 
admitted slowly. “I was in a chemist’s shop in the 
Strand. You were signing his book for a sleeping draught, 
I think.” 

She shivered all over. 

“Yes, yes!” she cried. “Of course, I remember all 
about it. The young lady who was with you — what was 
she doing there? Where is she now?” 

“The young lady was my sister,” Tavernake answered 
stiffly. 

Mrs. Wenham Gardner looked, for a moment, as though 
she would have struck him. 

“You need not lie to me!” she exclaimed. “It is not 
worth while. Tell me where you met her, why you were 
with, her at all in that intimate fashion, and where she is 
now!” 


INTRODUCING MRS. GARDNER 53 

Tavernake realized at once that so far as this woman 
was concerned, the fable of his relationship with Beatrice 
was hopeless. She knew! 

“Madam,” he replied, “I made the acquaintance of the 
young lady with whom I was that evening, at the board- 
ing-house where we both lived.” 

“What were you doing in the chemist’s shop.^^” she 
demanded. 

“The young lady had been ill,” he proceeded deliber- 
ately, wondering how much to tell. “She had been taken 
very ill indeed. She was just recovering when you en- 
tered.” 

“Where is she now?” the woman asked eagerly. “Is 
she still at that boarding-house of which you spoke? ” 

“No,” he answered. 

Her fingers gripped his arm once more. 

“Why do you answer me always in monosyllables? 
Don’t you understand that you must tell me everything 
that you know about her. You must tell me where I can 
find her, at once.” 

Tavernake remained silent. The woman’s voice had 
still that note of wonderful sweetness, but she had al- 
together lost her air of complete and aristocratic indif- 
ference. She was a very altered person now from the 
distinguished client who had first enlisted his services. 
For some reason or other, he knew that she was suffering 
from a terrible anxiety. 

“I am not sure,” he said at last, “whether I can do as 
you ask.” 

“What do you mean?” she exclaimed sharply. 

“The young lady,” he continued, “seemed, on the 
occasion to which you have referred, to be particularly 
anxious to avoid recognition. She hurried out of the 


54 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

place without speaking to you, and she has avoided the 
subject ever since. I do not know what her motives may 
have been, but I think that I should like to ask her first 
before I tell you where she is to be found.” 

Mrs. Wenham Gardner leaned towards him. It was 
certainly the first time that a woman in her apparent 
rank of life had looked upon Tavernake in such a manner. 
Her forehead was a little wrinkled, her lips were parted, 
her eyes were pathetically, delightfully eloquent. 

“Mr. Tavernake, you must not — you must not re- 
fuse me,” she pleaded. “If you only knew the impor- 
tance of it, you would not hesitate for a moment. This is 
no idle curiosity on my part. I have reasons, very serious 
reasons indeed, for wishing to discover that poor girl’s 
whereabouts at once. There is a possible danger of 
which she must be warned. No one can do it except 
myself.” 

“Are you her friend or her enemy?” Tavernake asked. 

“Why do you ask such a question?” she demanded. 

“I am only going by her expression when she saw you 
come into the chemist’s shop,” Tavernake persisted dog- 
gedly. 

“It is a cruel suggestion, that,” the woman cried. “I 
wish to be her friend, I am her friend. If I could only tell 
you everything, you would understand at once what a 
terrible situation, what a hideous quandary I am in.” 

Once more Tavernake paused for a few moments. He 
was never a quick thinker and the situation was certainly 
an embarrassing one for him. 

“Madam,” he replied at length, “I beg that you will 
tell me nothing. The young lady of whom you have 
spoken permits me to call myself her friend, and what she 
has not told me herself I do not wish to learn from others. 


INTRODUCING MRS. GARDNER 55 

I will tell her of this meeting with you, and if it is her de- 
sire, I will bring you her address myself within a few hours. 
I cannot do more than that.” 

Her face was suddenly cold and hard. 

“You mean that you will not!” she exclaimed angrily. 
“You are obstinate. I do not know how you dare to re- 
fuse what I ask.” 

The car had come to a standstill. He stepped out on 
to the pavement. 

“This is Grantham House, madam,” he announced. 
“Will you descend?” 

He heard her draw a quick breath between her teeth 
and he caught a gleam in her eyes which made him feel 
vaguely uneasy. She was very angry indeed. 

“I do not think that it is necessary for me to do so,” 
she said frigidly. “I do not like the look of the house at 
all. I do not believe that it will suit me.” 

“At least, now that you are here,” he protested, “you 
will, if you please, go over it. I should like you to see the 
ballroom. The decorations are supposed to be quite 
exceptional.” 

She hesitated for a moment and then, with a slight 
shrug of the shoulders, she yielded. There was a note in 
his tone not exactly insistent, and yet dominant, a note 
which she obeyed although secretly she wondered at her- 
self for doing so. They passed inside the house and she 
followed him from room to room, leaving him to do all 
the talking. She seemed very little interested but every 
now and then she asked a languid question. 

“I do not think that it is in the least likely to suit me,” 
she decided at last. “It is all very magnificent, of course, 
but I consider that the rent is exorbitant.” 

Tavernake regarded her thoughtfully. 


56 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“I believe,” he said, ‘‘ that our client might be disposed 
to consider some reduction, in the event of your seriously 
entertaining taking the house. If you like, I will see him 
on the subject. I feel sure that the amount I have men- 
tioned could be reduced, if the other conditions were 
satisfactory.” 

“There would be no harm in your doing so,” she as- 
sented. “How soon can you come and let me know?” 

“I might be able to ring you up this evening; certainly 
to-morrow morning,” he answered. 

She shook her head. 

“I will not speak upon the telephone,” she declared. 
“I only allow it in my rooms under protest. You must 
come and tell me what your client says. When can you 
see him?” 

“It is doubtful whether I shall be able to find him this 
evening,” he replied. “It would probably be to-morrow 
morning.” 

“You might go and try at once,” she suggested. 

He was a little surprised. 

“You are really interested in the matter, then?” he 
inquired. 

“Yes, yes,” she told him, “of course I am interested. 
I want you to come and see me directly you have heard. 
It is important. Supposing you are able to find your 
client to-night, shall you have seen the young lady before 
then?” 

“I am afraid not,” he answered. 

“You must try,” she begged, laying her fingers upon 
his shoulder. “Mr. Tavernake, do please try. You can’t 
realize what all this anxiety means to me. I am not at all 
well and I am seriously worried about — about that 
young lady. I tell you that I must have an interview 


INTRODUCING MRS. GARDNER 57 

with her. It is not for my sake so much as hers. She 
must be warned.” 

“Warned?” Tavernake repeated. “I really don’t un- 
derstand.” 

“Of course you don’t!” she exclaimed impatiently. 
“Why should you understand? I don’t want to offend 
you, Mr. Tavernake,” she went on hurriedly. “I would 
like to treat you quite frankly. It really is n’t your place 
to make diflSculties like this. What is this young lady to 
you that you should presume to consider yourself her 
guardian?” 

“She is a boarding-house acquaintance,” Tavernake 
confessed, “nothing more.” 

“Then why did you tell me, only a moment ago, that 
she was your sister?” Mrs. Gardner demanded. 

Tavernake threw open the door before which they had 
been standing. 

“This,” he said, “is the famous dancing gallery. Lord 
Clumber is quite willing to allow the pictures to remain, 
and I may tell you that they are insured for over sixty 
thousand pounds. There is no finer dancing room than 
this in all London.” 

Her eyes swept around it carelessly. 

“I have no doubt,” she admitted coldly, “that it is 
very beautiful. I prefer to continue our discussion.” 

“The dining-room,” he went on, “is almost as large. 
Lord Clumber tells us that he has frequently entertained 
eighty guests for dinner. The system of ventilation in 
this room is, as you see, entirely modern.” 

She took him by the arm and led him to a seat at the 
further end of the apartment. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she said, making an obvious attempt 
to control her temper, “you seem like a very sensible 


58 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

young man, if you will allow me to say so, and I want to 
convince you that it is your duty to answer my questions. 
In the first place — don’t be offended, will you.^^ — but I 
cannot possibly see what interest you and that young 
lady can have in one another. You belong, to put it 
baldly, to altogether different social stations, and it is not 
easy to imagine what you could have in common.” 

She paused, but Tavernake had nothing to say. His 
gift of silence amounted sometimes almost to genius. She 
leaned so close to him while she waited in vain for his 
reply, that the ermine about her neck brushed his cheek. 
The perfume of her clothes and hair, the pleading of her 
deep violet-blue eyes, all helped to keep him tongue-tied. 
Nothing of this sort had ever happened to him before. 
He did not in the least understand what it could possibly 
mean. 

“I am speaking to you now, Mr. Tavernake,” she con- 
tinued earnestly, “for your own good. When you tell the 
young lady, as you have promised to this evening, that 
you have seen me, and that I am very, very anxious to 
find out where she is, she will very likely go down on her 
knees and beg you to give me no information whatever 
about her. She will do her best to make you promise to 
keep us apart. And yet that is all because she does not 
understand. Believe me, it is better that you should tell 
me the truth. You cannot know her very well, Mr. 
Tavernake, but she is not very wise, that young lady. 
She is very obstinate, and she has some strange ideas. 
It is not well for her that she should be left in the 
world alone. You must see that for yourself, Mr. 
Tavernake.” 

“She seems a very sensible young lady,” he declared 
slowly. “I should have thought that she would have 


INTRODUCING MRS. GARDNER 59 

been old enough to know for herself what she wanted and 
what was best for her.” 

The woman at his side wrung her hands with a little 
gesture of despair. 

“Oh, why can’t I make you understand!” she ex- 
claimed, the emotion once more quivering in her tone. 
“How can I — how can I possibly make you believe me? 
Listen. Something has happened of which she does not 
know — something terrible. It is absolutely necessary, 
in her own interests as well as mine, that I see her, and 
that very shortly.” 

“I shall tell her exactly what you say,” Tavernake an- 
swered apparently unmoved. “Perhaps it would be as 
well now if we went on to view the sleeping apartments.” 

“Never mind about the sleeping apartments!” she 
cried quickly. “You must do more than tell her. You 
can’t believe that I want to bring harm upon any one. 
Do I look like it? Have I the appearance of a person of 
evil disposition? You can be that young lady’s best friend, 
Mr. Tavernake, if you will. Take me to her now, this 
minute. Believe me, if you do that, you will never regret 
it as long as you live.” 

Tavernake studied the pattern of the parquet floor for 
several moments. It was a difficult problem, this. Put- 
ting his own extraordinary sensations into the back- 
ground, he was face to face with something which he did 
not comprehend, and he disliked the position intensely. 
After all, delay seemed safest. 

“Madam,” he protested, “a few hours more or less can 
make but little difference.” 

“That is for me to judge!” she exclaimed. “You say 
that because you do not understand. A few hours may 
make all the difference in the world.” 


6o THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


He shook his head. 

“I will tell you exactly what is in my mind,” he said, 
deliberately. “The young lady was terrified when she 
saw you that night accidentally in the chemist’s shop. 
She almost dragged me away, and although she was al- 
most fainting when we reached the taxicab, her greatest 
and chief anxiety was that we should get away before you 
could follow us. I cannot forget this. Until I have 
received her permission, therefore, to disclose her where- 
abouts, we will, if you please, speak of something else.” 

He rose to his feet and glancing around was just in 
time to see the change in the face of his companion. That 
eloquently pleading smile had died away from her lips, 
her teeth were clenched. She looked like a woman strug- 
gling hard to control some overwhelming passion. With- 
out the smile her lips seemed hard, even cruel. There 
were evil things shining out of her eyes. Tavernake felt 
chilled, almost afraid. 

“We will see the rest of the house,” she declared coldly. 

They went on from room to room. Tavernake, recover- 
ing himself rapidly, master of his subject, was fluent and 
practical. The woman listened, with only a terse remark 
here and there. Once more they stood in the hall. 

“Is there anything else you would like to see?” he 
asked. 

“Nothing,” she replied, “but there is one thing more I 
have to say.” 

He waited in stolid silence. 

“Only a week ago,” she went on, looking him in the 
face, “I told a man who is what you call, I think, an in- 
quiry agent, that I would give a hundred pounds if he 
could discover that young woman for me within twenty- 
four hours.” 


INTRODUCING MRS. GARDNER 6i 

Tavernake started, and the smile came back to the lips 
of Mrs. Wenham Gardner. After all, perhaps she had 
found the way ! 

‘‘A hundred pounds is a great deal of money,” he said 
thoughtfully. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Not so very much,” she replied. “About a fort- 
night’s rent of this house, Mr. Tavernake.” 

“Is the offer still open?” he asked. 

She looked into his eyes, and her face had once more 
the beautiful ingenuousness of a child. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she said, “the offer is still open. 
Get into the car with me and drive back to my rooms at 
the Milan Court, and I will give you a cheque for a hun- 
dred pounds at once. It will be very easily earned and 
you may just as well take it, for now I know where you 
are employed, I could have you followed day by day until 
I discover for myself what you are so foolishly concealing. 
Be reasonable, Mr. Tavernake.” 

Tavernake stood quite still. His arms were folded, he 
was looking out of the hall window at the smoky vista of 
roofs and chimneys. From the soles of his ready-made 
boots to his ill-brushed hair, he was a commonplace young 
man. A hundred pounds was to him a vast sum of money. 
It represented a year’s strenuous savings, perhaps more. 
The woman who watched him imagined that he was hesi- 
tating. Tavernake, however, had no such thought in his 
mind. He stood there instead, wondering what strange 
thing had come to him that the mention of a hundred 
pounds, delightful sum though it was, never tempted him 
for a single second. What this woman had said might 
be true. She would probably be able to discover the 
address easily enough without his help. Yet no such re- 


62 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


flection seemed to make the least difference. From the 
days of his earliest boyhood, from the time when he had 
flung himself into the struggle, money had always meant 
much to him, money not for its own sake but as the key 
to those things which he coveted in life. Yet at that 
moment something stronger seemed to have asserted 
itself. 

“You will come?” she whispered, passing her arm 
through his. “We will be there in less than five minutes, 
and I will write you the cheque before you tell me any- 
thing.” 

He moved towards the door indeed, but he drew a little 
away from her. 

“Madam,” he said, “I am sorry to seem so obstinate, 
but I thought I had made you understand some time ago. 
I do not feel at liberty to tell you anything without that 
young lady’s permission.” 

“You refuse?” she cried, incredulously. “You refuse 
a hundred pounds?” 

He opened the door of the car. He seemed scarcely 
to have heard her. 

“At about eleven o’clock to-morrow morning,” he 
announced, “ I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you. 

I trust that you will have decided to take the house.” 


CHAPTER VI 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 

Tavernake sat a few hours later at his evening meal in 
the tiny sitting-room of an apartment house in Chelsea. 
He wore a black tie, and although he had not yet aspired 
to a dinner coat, the details of his person and toilet showed 
signs of a new attention. Opposite to him was Beatrice. 

“Tell me,” she asked, as soon as the small maid-servant 
who brought in their first dish had disappeared, “what 
have you been doing all day? Have you been letting 
houses or surveying land or book-keeping, or have you 
been out to Marston Rise?” 

It was her customary question, this. She really took 
an interest in his work. 

“I have been attending a rich American client,” he 
announced, “ a compatriot of your own. I went with her 
to Grantham House in her own motor-car. I believe she 
thinks of taking it.” 

“American!” Beatrice remarked. “What was her 
name?” 

Tavernake looked up from his plate across the little 
table, across the bowl of simple flowers which was its sole 
decoration. 

“She called herself Mrs. Wenham Gardner!” 

Away like a flash went the new-found peace in the 
girl’s face. She caught at her breath, her fingers gripped 


64 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

the table in front of her. Once more she was as he had 
known her first — pale, with great terrified eyes shining 
out of a haggard face. 

“She has been to you,” Beatrice gasped, “for a house? 
You are sure?” 

“I am quite sure,” Tavemake declared, calmly. 

“You recognized her?” ^ 

He assented gravely. 

“It was the woman who stood in the chemist’s shop 
that night, signing her name in a book,” he said. 

He did not apologize in any way for the shock he had 
given her. He had done it deliberately. From that very 
first morning, when they had breakfasted together at 
London Bridge, he had felt that he deserved her confi- 
dence, and in a sense it was a grievance with him that 
she had withheld it. 

“Did she recognize you?” 

“Yes,” he admitted. “I was sent for into the office 
and found her there with the chief. I felt sure that she 
recognized me from the first, and when she agreed to 
look at Grantham House, she insisted upon it that I 
should accompany her. While we were in the motor-car, 
she asked me about you. She wished for your address.” 

“Did you give it to her?” the girl cried, breathlessly. 

“No; I said that I must consult you first.” 

She drew a little sigh of relief. Nevertheless, she was 
looking white and shaken. 

“Did she say what she wanted me for?” 

“She was very mysterious,” Tavernake answered. 
“She spoke of some danger of which you knew nothing. 
Before I came away, she offered me a hundred pounds 
to let her know where you were.” 

Beatrice laughed softly. 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 65 

“That is just like Elizabeth/’ she declared. “You 
must have made her very angry. When she wants any- 
thing, she wants it very badly indeed, and she will never 
believe that every person has not his price. Money 
means everything to her. If she had it, she would buy, 
buy, buy all the time.” 

“On the face of it,” Tavernake remarked, soberly, “her 
offer seeiffhd rather an absurd one. If she is in earnest, 
if she is really so anxioms to discover your whereabouts, 
she will certainly be able to do so without my help.” 

“I am not so sure,” Beatrice replied. “London is a 
great hiding place.” 

“A private detective,” he began, — 

Beatrice shook her head. 

“I do not think,” she said, “that Elizabeth will care 
to employ a private detective. Tell me, have you to see 
her upon this business again? ” 

“I am going to her flat at the Milan Court to-morrow 
morning at eleven o’clock.” 

Beatrice leaned back in her chair. Presently she re- 
commenced her dinner. She had the air of one to whom 
a respite has been granted. Tavernake, in a way, began 
to resent this continued silence of hers. He had certainly 
hoped that she would at least have gone so far as to ex- 
plain her anxiety to keep her whereabouts secret. 

“You must remember,” he went on, after a short pause, 
“that I am in a somewhat peculiar position with regard 
to you, Beatrice. I know so little that I do not even know 
how to answer in your interests such questions as Mrs. 
Wenham Gardner asked me. I am not complaining, but 
is this state of absolute ignorance necessary?” 

A new thought seemed to come to Beatrice. She looked 
at her companion curiously. 


66 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


“Tell me,” she asked, “what did you think of Mrs. 
Wenham Gardner?” 

Tavernake answered deliberately, and after a moment’s 
reflection. 

“I thought her,” he said, “one of the most beautiful 
women I have ever seen in my life. That is not saying 
very much, perhaps, but to me it meant a good deal. She 
was exceedingly gracious and her interest in you seemed 
quite real and even affectionate. I do not understand 
why you should wish to hide from such a woman.” 

“You found her attractive?” Beatrice persisted. 

“I found her very attractive indeed,” Tavernake 
admitted, without hesitation. “She had an air with 
her. She was quite different from all the women I have 
ever met at the boarding-house or anywhere else. She 
has a face which reminded me somehow of the Madonnas 
you took me to see in the National Gallery the other day.” 

Beatrice shivered slightly. For some reason, his remark 
seemed to have distressed her. 

“I am very, very sorry,” she declared, “that Elizabeth 
ever came to your oflfice. I want you to promise me, Leon- 
ard, that you will be careful whenever you are with her.” 

Tavernake laughed. 

“Careful!” he repeated. “She isn’t likely to be even 
civil to me to-morrow when I tell her that I have seen 
you and I refuse to give her your address. Careful, indeed ! 
What has a poor clerk in a house-agent’s oflSce to fear 
from such a personage?” 

The servant had reappeared with their second and 
last course. For a few moments they spoke of casual 
subjects. Afterwards, however, Tavernake asked a 
question. 

“By the way,” he said, “we are hoping to let Grantham 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 67 

House to Mrs. Wenham Gardner. I suppose she must 
be very wealthy?” 

Beatrice looked at him curiously. 

“Why do you come to me for information?” she de- 
manded. “I suppose that she brought you references?” 

“We have n’t quite got to that stage yet,” he answered. 
“Somehow or other, from her manner of talking and 
general appearance, I do not think that either Mr. Dowl- 
ing or I doubted her financial position.” 

“I should never have thought you so credulous a 
person,” remarked Beatrice, with a smile. 

Tavernake was genuinely disturbed. His business 
instincts were aroused. 

“Do you really mean that this Mrs. Wenham Gardner 
is not a person of substance? ” he inquired. 

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. 

“She is the wife of a man who had the reputation of 
being very wealthy,” she replied. “She has no money 
of her own, I am sure.” 

“She still lives with her husband, I suppose?” Taver- 
nake asked. 

Beatrice closed her eyes. 

“I know very little about her,” she declared. “Last 
time I heard, he had disappeared, gone away, or some- 
thing of the sort.” 

“And she has no money,” Tavernake persisted, “ex- 
cept what she gets from him? No settlement, even, or 
anything of that sort? ” 

“Nothing at all,” Beatrice answered. 

“This is very bad news,” Tavernake remarked, think- 
ing gloomily of his wasted day. “It will be a great disap- 
pointment to Mr. Dowling. Why, her motor-car was 
magnificent, and she talked as though money were no 


68. THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


object at all. I suppose you are quite sure of what you 
are saying?’’ 

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. 

“I ought to know,” she answered, grimly, “for she is 
my sister.” 

Tavernake remained quite motionless for a minute, 
without speech; it was his way of showing surprise. 
When he was sure that he had grasped the import of her 
words, he spoke again. 

“Your sister!” he repeated. “There is a likeness, of 
course. You are dark and she is fair, but there is a like- 
ness. That would account,” he continued, “for her 
anxiety to find you.” 

“It also accounts,” Beatrice replied, with a little break 
of the lips, “for my anxiety that she should not find me. 
Leonard,” she added, touching his hand for a moment 
with hers, “I wish that I could tell you everything, but 
there are things behind, things so terrible, that even to 
you, my dear brother, I could not speak of them.” 

Tavernake rose to his feet and lit a cigarette — a new 
habit mth him, while Beatrice busied herself with a 
small coffee-making machine. He sat in an easy-chair 
and smoked slowly. He was still wearing his ready-made 
clothes, but his collar was of the fashionable shape, his 
tie well chosen and neatly adjusted. He seemed somehow 
to have developed. 

“Beatrice,” he asked, “what am I to tell your sister 
to-morrow? ” 

She shivered as she set his coffee-cup down by his side. 

“Tell her, if you will, that I am well and not in want,” 
she answered. “Tell her, too, that I refuse to send my 
address. Tell her that the one aim of my life i& to keep 
the knowledge of my whereabouts a secret from her.” 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 69 

Tavernake relapsed into silence. He was thinking. 
Mysteries had no attraction for him — he loathed them. 
Against this one especially he felt a distinct grudge. 
Nevertheless, some instinct forbade his questioning the 
girl. 

“Apart from more personal matters, then,” he asked 
after some time, “you would not advise me to enter into 
any business negotiations with this lady?” 

“You must not think of it,” Beatrice replied, firmly. 
“So far as money is concerned, Elizabeth has no con- 
science whatever. The things she wants in life she will 
have somehow, but it is all the time at other people’s 
expense. Some day she will have to pay for it.” 

Tavernake sighed. 

“It is very unfortunate,” he declared. “The com- 
mission on the letting of Grantham House would have 
been worth having.” 

“After all, it is only your film’s loss,” she reminded 
him. 

“It does not appeal to me like that,” he continued. 
“So long as I am manager for Dowling & Spence, I feel 
these things personally. However, that does not matter. 
I am afraid it is a disagreeable subject for you, and we 
will not talk about it any longer.” 

She lit a cigarette with a little gesture of relief. She 
came once more to his side. 

“Leonard,” she said, “I know that I am treating you 
badly in telling you nothing, but it is simply because I 
do not want to descend to half truths. I should like to 
tell you all or nothing. At present I cannot tell you all.” 

“Very well,” he replied, “I am quite content to leave 
it with you to do as you think best.” 

“Leonard,” she continued, “of course you think me 


70 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

unreasonable. I can’t help it. There are things between 
my sister and myself the knowledge of which is a con- 
stant nightmare to me. During the last few months of 
my life it has grown to be a perfect terror. It sent me 
into hiding at Blenheim House, it reconciled me even to 
the decision I came to that night on the Embankment. 
I had decided that sooner than go back, sooner than ask 
help from her or any one connected with her, I would 
do what I tried to do the time when you saved my life.” 

Tavernake looked at her wonderingly. She was, indeed, 
under the spell of some deep emotion. Her memory seemed 
to have carried her back into another world, somewhere 
far away from this dingy little sitting-room which they 
two were sharing together, back into a world where life 
and death were matters of small moment, where the 
great passions were unchained, and men and women 
moved among the naked things of life. Almost he felt 
the thrill of it. It was something new to him, the touch 
of a magic finger upon his eyelids. Then the moment 
passed and he was himself again, matter-of-fact, prosaic. 

“Let us dismiss the subject finally,” he said. “I must 
see your sister on business to-morrow, but it shall be for 
the last time.” 

“I think,” she murmured, “that you will be wise.” 

He crossed the room and returned with a newspaper. 

“I saw your music in the hall as I came in,” he remarked. 
“Are you singing to-night?” 

The question was entirely in his ordinary tone. It 
brought her back to the world of every-day things as 
nothing else could have done. 

“Yes; isn’t it luck?” she told him. “Three in one 
week. I only heard an hour ago.” 

“A city dinner?” he inquired. 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 71 

“Something of the sort,” she replied. “I am to be at 
the Whitehall Rooms at ten o’clock. If you are tired, 
Leonard, please let me go alone. I really do not mind. 
I can get a ’bus to the door, there and back again.” 

“I am not tired,” he declared. “To tell you the truth, 
I scarcely know what it is to be tired. I shall go with 
you, of course.” 

She looked at him with a momentary admiration of 
his powerful frame, his strong, forceful face. 

“It seems too bad,” she remarked, “after a long day’s 
work to drag you out again.” 

He smiled. 

“I really like to come,” he assured her. “Besides,” 
he added, after a moment’s pause, “I like to hear you 
sing.” 

“I wonder if you mean that?” she asked, looking at 
him curiously. “I have watched you once or twice when 
I have been singing to you. Do you really care for it?” 

“Certainly I do. How can you doubt it? I do not,” 
he continued, slowly, “understand music, or anything 
of that sort, of course, any more than I do the pictures 
you take me to see, and some of the books you talk about. 
There are lots of things I can’t get the hang of entirely, 
but they all leave a sort of pleasure behind. One feels it 
even if one only half appreciates.” 

She came over to his chair. 

“I am glad,” she said, a little wistfully, “that there is 
one thing I do which you like.” 

He looked at her reprovingly. 

“My dear Beatrice,” he said, “I often wish I could 
make you understand how extraordinarily helpful and 
useful to me you have been.” 

“Tell me in what way?” she begged. 


72 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“You have given me,” he assured her, “an insight into 
many things in life which I had found most perplexing. 
You see, you have traveled and I have n’t. You have 
mixed with all classes of people, and I have gone steadily 
on in one groove. You have told me many things which 
I shall find very useful indeed later on.” 

“Dear me,” she laughed, “you are making me quite 
conceited ! ” 

“Anyhow,” he replied, “I don’t want you to look upon 
me, Beatrice, in any way as a benefactor. I am much 
more comfortable here than at the boarding-house and 
it is costing no more money, especially since you began 
to get those singing engagements. By the way, had n’t 
you better go and get ready?” 

She smothered a sigh as she turned away and went 
slowly upstairs. To all appearance, no person who ever 
breathed was more ordinary than this strong-featured, 
self-centered young man who had put out his arm and 
snatched her from the Maelstrom. Yet it seemed to her 
that there was something almost unnatural about his 
unapproachability. She was convinced that he was en- 
tirely honest, not only with regard to his actual relations 
toward her, but with regard to all his purposes. Her sex 
did not even seem to exist for him. The fact that she was 
good-looking, and with her renewed health daily becom- 
ing more so, seemed to be of no account to him whatever. 
He showed interest in her appearance sometimes, but it 
was interest of an entirely impersonal sort. He simply 
expressed himself as satisfied or dissatisfied, as a matter 
of taste. It came to her at that moment that she had 
never seen him really relax. Only when he sat oppo- 
site to that great map which hung now in the further 
room, and wandered about from section to section with 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 73 

a pencil in one hand and a piece of rubber in another, 
did he show anything which in any way approached 
enthusiasm, and even then it was always the unmistak- 
able enthusiasm born of dead things. Suddenly she 
laughed at herself in the little mirror, laughed softly but 
heartily. This was the guardian whom Fate had sent for 
her! If Elizabeth had only understood! 


CHAPTER VII 


MR. PRITCHARD OF NEW YORK 

Later in the evening, Beatrice and Tavernake traveled 
together in a motor omnibus from their rooms at Chelsea 
to Northumberland Avenue. Tavernake was getting 
quite used to the programme by now. They sat in a 
dimly-lit waiting-room until the time came for Beatrice 
to sing. Every now and then an excitable little person 
who was the secretary to some institution or other would 
run in and offer them refreshments, and tell them in 
what order they were to appear. To-night there was no 
departure from the ordinary course of things, except that 
there was slightly more stir. The dinner was a larger one 
than usual. It came to Beatrice’s turn very soon after 
their arrival, and Tavernake, squeezing his way a few 
steps into the dining-room, stood with the waiters against 
the wall. He looked with curious eyes upon a scene with 
which he had no manner of sympathy. 

A hundred or so of men had dined together in the cause 
of some charity. The odor of their dinner, mingled with 
the more aromatic perfume of the tobacco smoke which 
was already ascending in little blue clouds from the vari- 
ous tables, hung about the over-heated room, seeming, 
indeed, the fitting atmosphere for the long rows of guests. 
The majority of them were in a state of expansiveness. 
Their faces were redder than when they had sat down; 
a certain stiffness had departed from their shirt-fronts 


MR. PRITCHARD OF NEW YORK 75 

and their manners; their faces were flushed, their eyes 
watery. There were a few exceptions — paler-faced men 
who sat there with the air of endeavoring to bring them- 
selves into accord with surroundings in which they had 
no real concern. Two of these looked up with interest at 
the first note of Beatrice’s song. The one was sitting 
within a few places of the chairman, and he was too far 
away for his little start to be noticed by either Tavernake 
or Beatrice. The nearer one, however, Tavernake hap- 
pened to be watching, and he saw the change in his ex- 
pression. The man was, in his way, ugly. His face was 
certainly not a good one, although he did not appear to 
share the immediate weaknesses of his neighbors. To 
every note of the song he listened intently. When it 
was over, he rose and came toward Tavernake. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but did I not see you 
come in with the young lady who has just been singing?” 

“You may have,” Tavernake answered. “I cer- 
tainly did come with her.” 

“May I ask if you are related to her?” 

Tavernake had got over his hesitation in replying to 
such questions, by now. He answered promptly. 

“I am her brother,” he declared. 

The man produced a card. 

“Please introduce me to her,” he begged, laconically. 

“Why should I? ” Tavernake asked. “ I have no reason 
to suppose that she desires to know you.” 

The man stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. 

“Well,” he said, “you had better show your sister my 
card. She is, I presume, a professional, as she is singing 
here. My desire to make her acquaintance is purely 
actuated by business motives.” 

Tavernake moved away toward the waiting-room. 


76 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

The man, who according to his card was Mr. Sidney 
Grier, would have followed him in, but Tavernake stopped 
him. 

“If you will wait here,” he suggested, “I will see 
whether my sister desires to meet you.” 

Once more Mr. Sidney Grier looked surprised, but 
after a second glance at Tavernake he accepted his sug- 
gestion and remained outside. Tavernake took the 
card to Beatrice. 

“Beatrice,” he announced, “there is a man outside who 
has heard you sing and who wants to be introduced.” 

She took the card and her eyes opened wide. 

“Do you know who he is?” Tavernake asked. 

“Of course,” she answered. “He is a great producer 
of musical comedies. Let me think.” 

She stood with the card in her hand. Some one else 
was singing now — an ordinary modern ballad of love 
and roses, rapture and despair. They heard the rising and 
falling of the woman’s voice; the clatter of the dinner 
had ceased. Beatrice stood still thinking, her fingers 
clinching the card of Mr. Sidney Grier. 

“You must bring him in,” she said to Tavernake 
finally. 

Tavernake went outside. 

“My sister will see you,” he remarked, with the air of 
one who brings good news. 

Mr. Sidney Grier grunted. He was not used to being 
kept waiting, even for a second. Tavernake ushered him 
into the retiring room, and the other two musicians who 
were there stared at him as at a god. 

“This is the gentleman whose card you have, Bea- 
trice,” Tavernake announced. “Mr. Sidney Grier — 
Miss Tavernake!” 


MR. PRITCHARD OF NEW YORK 77 

The man smiled. 

“Your brother seems to be suspicious of me,” he de- 
clared. “I found it quite difficult to persuade him that 
you might find it interesting to talk to me for a few 
minutes.” 

“He does not quite understand,” Beatrice answered. 
“He has not much experience of musical affairs or the 
stage, and your name would not have any significance 
for him.” 

Tavernake went outside and listened idly to the song 
which was pr6ceeding. It was a class of music which 
secretly he preferred to the stranger and more haunting 
notes of Beatrice’s melodies. Apparently the audience 
was of his opinion, for they received it with a vociferous 
encore, to which the young lady generously replied with 
a music-hall song about “A French lady from over the 
water.” Towards the close of the applause which marked 
the conclusion of this effort, Tavernake felt himself 
touched lightly upon the arm. He turned round. By 
his side was standing the other dinner guest who had 
shown some interest in Beatrice. He was a man apparently 
of about forty years of age, tall and broad-shouldered, with 
black moustache, and dark, piercing eyes. Unlike most 
of the guests, he wore a short dinner-coat and black tie, 
from which, and his slight accent, Tavernake concluded 
that he was probably an American. 

“Say, you’ll forgive my speaking to you,” he said, 
touching Tavernake on the arm. “My name is Pritchard. 
I saw you come in with the young lady who was singing 
a few minutes ago, and if you won’t consider it a liberty. 
I’ll be very glad indeed if you’ll answer me one question.” 

Tavernake stiffened insensibly. 

“It depends upon the question,” he replied, shortly. 


78 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Well, it’s about the young lady, and that’s a fact,” 
Mr. Pritchard admitted. “I see that her name upon the 
programme is given as Miss Tavernake. I was seated 
at the other end of the room but she seemed to me 
remarkably like a young lady from the other side of the 
Atlantic, whom I am very anxious to meet.” 

“Perhaps you will kindly put your question in plain 
words,” Tavernake said. 

“Why, that’s easy,” Mr. Pritchard declared. “Is 
Miss Tavernake really her name, or an assumed one? 
I expect it’s the same over here as in my country — a 
singer very often sings under another name than her own, 
you know,” he added, noting Tavernake’s gathering frown, 

“The young lady in question is my sister, and I do 
not care to discuss her with strangers,” Tavernake an- 
nounced. 

Mr. Pritchard nodded pleasantly. 

“Why, of course, that ends the matter,” he remarked- 
“ Sorry to have troubled you, anyway.” 

He strolled off back to his seat and Tavernake returned 
thoughtfully to the dressing-room. He found Beatrice 
alone and waiting for him. 

“You’ve got rid of that fellow, then?” he inquired. 

Beatrice assented. 

“Yes; he didn’t stay very long,” she replied. 

“Who was he?” Tavernake asked, curiously. 

“From a musical comedy point of view,” she said, “he 
was the most important person in London. He is the 
emperor of stage-land. He can make the fortune of any 
girl in London who is reasonably good-looking and who 
can sing and dance ever so little.” 

“What did he want with you?” Tavernake demanded, 
suspiciously. 


MR. PRITCHARD OF NEW YORK 79 

“He asked me whether I would like to go upon the 
stage. What do you think about it, Leonard?” 

Tavernake, for some reason or other, was displeased. 

“Would you earn much more money than by singing 
at these dinners?” he asked. 

“Very, very much more,” she assured him. 

“And you would like the life?” 

She laughed softly. 

“Why not? It isn’t so bad. I was on the stage in 
New York for some time under much worse conditions.” 

He remained silent for a few minutes. They had made 
their way into the street now and were waiting for an 
omnibus. 

“What did you tell him?” he asked, abruptly. 

She was looking down toward the Embankment, her 
eyes filled once more with the things which he could not 
understand. 

“I have told him nothing yet,” she murmured. 

“You would like to accept?” 

She nodded. 

“I am not sure,” she replied. “If only — I dared!” 


CHAPTER VIII 
woman’s wiles 

At eleven o’clock the next morning, Tavernake presented 
himseK at the Milan Court and inquired for Mrs. Wenham 
Gardner. He was sent at once to her apartments in 
charge of a page. She was lying upon a sofa piled up 
with cushions, wrapped in a wonderful blue garment 
which seemed somehow to deepen the color of her eyes. 
By her side was a small table on which was some choco- 
late, a bowl of roses, and a roll of newspapers. She held 
out her hand toward Tavernake, but did not rise. There 
was something almost spiritual about her pallor, the 
delicate outline of her figure, so imperfectly concealed by 
the thin silk dressing-gown, the faint, tired smile with 
which she welcomed him. 

“You will forgive my receiving you like this, Mr. 
Tavernake?” she begged. “To-day I have a headache. 
I have been anxious for your coming. You must sit by 
my side, please, and tell me at once whether you have 
seen Beatrice.” 

Tavernake did exactly as he was bidden. The chair 
toward which she had pointed was quite close to the 
sofa, but there was no other unoccupied in the room. 
She raised herself a little on the couch and turned towards 
him. Her eyes were fixed anxiously upon his, her fore- 
head slightly wrinkled, her voice tremulous with eagerness. 

“You have seen her?” 


WOMAN’S WILES 8i 

“I have,” he admitted, looking steadily into the lining 
of his hat. 

“She has been cruel,” Elizabeth declared. “I can tell 
it from your face. You have bad news for me.” 

“I do not know,” Tavernake replied, “whether she has 
been cruel or not. She refuses to allow me to tell you 
her address. She begged me, indeed, to keep away from 
you altogether.” 

“Why? Did she tell you why?” 

“She says that you are her sister, that you have no 
money of your own and that your husband has left you,” 
Tavernake answered, deliberately. 

“Is that all?” 

“No, it is not all,” he continued. “As to the rest, she 
told me nothing definite. It is quite clear, however, that 
she is very anxious to keep away from you.” 

“But her reason?” Elizabeth persisted. “Did she give 
you no reason? ” 

Tavernake looked her in the face. 

“She gave me no reason,” he said. 

“Do you believe that she is justified in treating me 
like this?” Elizabeth asked, playing nervously with a 
pendant which hung from her smooth, bare neck. 

“Of course I do,” he replied. “I am quite sure that 
she would not feel as she does unless you had been guilty 
of something very terrible indeed.” 

The woman on the couch winced as though some one 
had struck her. A more susceptible man than Tavernake 
must have felt a little remorseful at the tears which 
dimmed for a moment her beautiful eyes. Tavernake, 
however, although he felt a moment’s uneasiness, although 
he felt himself assailed all the time by a curious new emo- 
tion which he utterly failed to understand, was neverthe- 


82 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

less still immune. The things which were to happen to 
him had not yet arrived. 

‘‘Of course,” he continued, “I was very much disap- 
pointed to hear this, because I had hoped that we might 
have been able to let Grantham House to you. We can- 
not consider the matter at all now unless you pay for 
everything in advance.” 

She uncovered her eyes and looked at him. People so 
direct of speech as this had come very seldom into her 
life. She was conscious of a thrill of interest. The study 
of men was a passion with her. Here was indeed a new 
type! 

“So you think that I am an adventuress,” she mur- 
mured. 

He reflected for a moment. 

“I suppose,” he admitted, “that it comes to that. I 
should not have returned at all if I had not promised. If 
there is any message which you wish me to give your sister, 
I will take it, but I cannot tell you her address.” 

She laid her hand suddenly upon his, and raising her- 
self a little on the couch, leaned towards him. Her eyes 
and her lips both pleaded with him. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she said slowly, “Beatrice is such a 
dear, obstinate creature, but she does not quite appre- 
ciate my position. Do me a favor, please. If you have 
promised not to give me her address let me at least know 
some way or some place in which I could come across her. 
I am sure she will be glad afterwards, and I — I shall be 
very grateful.” 

Tavernake felt that he was enveloped by something 
which he did not understand, but his lack of experience 
was so great that he did not even wonder at his insensi- 
bility. 


WOMAN’S WILES 


83 

“I shall keep my word to your sister,” he announced, 
“in the spirit as well as the letter. It is quite useless to 
ask me to do otherwise.” 

Elizabeth was at first amazed, then angry, how angry 
she scarcely knew even herself. She had been a spoilt 
child, she had grown into a spoilt woman. Men, at least, 
had been ready enough to do her bidding all her life. Her 
beauty was of that peculiar kind, half seductive, half 
pathetic, wholly irresistible. And now there had come 
this strange, almost impossible person, against the armor 
of whose indifference she had spent herself in vain. Her 
eyes filled with tears once more as she looked at him, and 
Tavernake became uneasy. He glanced at the clock and 
again toward the door. 

“ I think, if you will excuse me,” he began, — 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she interrupted, “you are very un- 
kind to me, very unkind indeed.” 

“I cannot help it,” he answered. 

“If you knew everything,” she continued, “you would 
not be so obstinate. If Beatrice herself were here, if I 
could whisper something in her ear, she would be only 
too thankful that I had found her out. Beatrice has al- 
ways misunderstood me, Mr. Tavernake. It is a little 
hard upon me, for we are both so far away from home, 
from our friends.” 

“You can send her any message you like by me,” Tav- 
ernake declared. “If you like, I will wait while you write 
a letter. If you really have anything to say to her which 
might change her opinion, you can write it, can’t you?” 

She looked down at her hands — very beautiful and 
well-kept hands — and sighed. This young man, with 
his unusual imperturbability and hateful common sense, 
was getting on her nerves. 


84 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“It is so hard to write things, Mr. Tavernake,” she 
said, “but, of course, it is something to know that if the 
worst happens I can send her a letter. I shall think about 
that for a short time. Meanwhile, there is so much about 
her I would love to have you tell me. She has no money, 
has she? How does she support herself?” 

“She sings occasionally at concerts,” Tavernake re- 
plied after a moment’s pause. “I suppose there is no 
harm in telling you that.” 

Elizabeth leaned towards him. She was very loth in- 
deed to acknowledge defeat. Once more her voice was 
deliciously soft, her forehead delicately wrinkled, her 
blue eyes filled with alluring light. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she murmured, “ do you know that 
you are not in the least kind to me? Beatrice and I are 
sisters, after all. Even she hks admitted that. She left 
me most unkindly at a critical time in my life; she mis- 
understood things; if I were to see her, I could explain 
everything. I feel it very much that she is living apart 
from me in this city where we are both strangers. I am 
anxious about her, Mr. Tavernake. Does she want 
money? If so, will you take her some from me? Can’t 
you suggest any way in which I could help her? Do be 
my friend, please, and advise me.” 

Life was certainly opening out for Tavernake. The 
atmosphere by which he was surrounded, which she was 
deliberately creating around him, was the atmosphere of 
an unknown world. It was a position, this, entirely novel 
to him. Nevertheless, he did his best to cope with it in- 
telligently. He reflected carefully before he made any 
reply, he refused absolutely to listen to the strange voices 
singing in his ears, and he delivered his decision with his 
usual air of finality. 


WOMAN’S WILES 85 

I am afraid, he said, “that since Beatrice refuses 
even to let you know her whereabouts, she would not 
wish to accept anything from you. It seems a pity,” he 
went on, the instincts of the money-saver stirring within 
him; “she is certainly none too well off.” 

The lady on the couch sighed. 

“Beatrice has at least a friend,” she murmured. “It is 
a great deal to have a friend. It is more than I have. We 
are both so far from home here. Often I am sorry that 
we ever left America. England is not a hospitable coun- 
try, Mr. Tavernake.” 

Again this painfully literal young man spoke out what 
was in his mind. 

“There was a gentleman in the motor-car with you the 
other night,” he reminded her. 

She bit her lip. 

“He was just an acquaintance,” she answered, “a man 
whom I used to know in New York, passing through Lon- 
don. He called on me and asked me to go to the theatre 
and supper. Why not.^^ I have had a terrible time during 
the last few months, Mr. Tavernake, and I am very lonely 
— lonelier than ever since my sister deserted me.” 

Tavernake began to feel, ridiculous though it seemed, 
that in some subtle and inexplicable fashion he was in 
danger. At any rate, he was hopelessly bewildered. He 
did not understand why this very beautiful lady should 
look at him as though they were old friends, why her 
eyes should appeal to him so often for sympathy, why 
her fingers, which a moment ago were resting lightly upon 
his hand, and which she had drawn away with reluctance, 
should have burned him like pin-pricks of fire. The 
woman who wishes to allure may be as subtle as possible 
in her methods, but a sense of her purpose, however 


86 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


vague it may be, is generally communicated to her would- 
be victim. Tavernake was becoming distinctly uneasy. 
He had no vanity. He knew from the first that this 
beautiful creature belonged to a world far removed from 
any of which he had any knowledge. The only solution 
of the situation which presented itself to him was that 
she might be thinking of borrowing money from him ! 

“There was never a time in my life,’’ she continued 
softly, “when I felt that I needed a friend more. I am 
afraid that my sister has prejudiced you against me, Mr. 
Tavernake. Beatrice is very young, and the young are 
not always sympathetic, you know. They do not make 
allowances, they do not understand.” 

“Why did you tell Mr. Dowling things which were not 
true?” he asked bluntly. 

She sighed, and looked down at the handkerchief with 
which she had been toying. 

“It was a very silly piece of conceit,” she admitted, 
“but, you see, I had to tell him something.” 

“Why did you come to the ofl5ce at all?” he continued. 

“Do you really want to know that?” she whispered 
softly. 

“Well, — ” 

“I will tell you,” she went on suddenly. “It sounds 
foolish, in a way, and yet it was n’t really, because, you 
see,” — she smiled at him — “I was anxious about Bea- 
trice. I saw you come out of the office that morning, and 
I recognized you at once. I knew that it was you who 
had been with Beatrice. I made an excuse about the 
house to come and see whether I could find you out.” 

Tavernake, in whom the vanity was not yet born, 
missed wholly the significance of her smile, her trifling 
hesitation. 


WOMAN’S WILES 


87 

“All that,” he declared, “is no reason why you should 
have told Mr. Dowling that your husband was a million- 
aire and had given you carte blanche about taking a 
house.” 

“Did I mention — my husband?” 

“Distinctly,” he assured her. 

For the first time she had faltered in her speech. Taver- 
nake felt that she herself was shaken by some emotion. 
Her eyes for a moment were strangely-lit; something had 
come into her face which he did not understand. Then 
it passed. The delightful smile, half deprecating, half 
appealing, once more parted her Hps; the gleam of horror 
no longer shone in her blue eyes. 

“I am always so foolish about money,” she declared, 
“so ignorant that I never know how I stand, but 
really I think that I have plenty, and a hundred 
or two more or less for rent did n’t seem to matter 
much.” 

It was a point of view, this, which Tavernake utterly 
failed to comprehend. He looked at her in surprise. 

“I suppose,” he protested, “you know how much a 
year you have to live on?” 

She shook her head. 

“It seems to vary all the time,” she sighed. “There 
are so many complications.” 

He looked at her in amazement. 

“After all,” he admitted, “you don’t look as though 
you had much of a head for figures.” 

“If only I had some one to help me!” she murmured. 

Tavernake moved uneasily in his chair. His sense of 
danger was growing. 

“If you will excuse me now,” he said, “I think that I 
must be getting back. I am an employee at Dowling, 


88 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Spence & Company’s, you know, and my time is not 
quite my own. I only came because I promised to.” 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she begged, looking at him full out 
of those wonderful blue eyes, “please do me a great 
favor.” 

“What is it?” he asked with clumsy ungraciousness. 

“Come and see me, every now and then, and let me 
know how my sister is. Perhaps you may be able to sug- 
gest some way in which I can help her.” 

Tavernake considered the question for a moment. He 
was angry with himself for the unaccountable sense of 
pleasure which her suggestion had given him. 

“I am not quite sure,” he said, “whether I had better 
come. Beatrice seemed quite anxious that I should not 
talk about her to you at all. She did not like my coming 
to-day.” 

“You seem to know a great deal about my sister,” 
Elizabeth declared reflectively. “You call her by her 
Christian name and you appear to see her frequently. 
Perhaps, even, you are fond of her.” 

Tavernake met his questioner’s inquiring gaze blankly. 
He was almost indignant. 

“Fond of her!” he exclaimed. “I have never been 
fond of any one in my life, or anything — except my 
work,” he added. 

She looked at him a little bewildered at first. 

“Oh, you strange person!” she cried, her lips breaking 
into a delightful smile. “Don’t you know that you 
have n’t begun to live at all yet? You don’t even know 
anything about life, and at the back of it all you have 
capacity. Yes,” she went on, “I think that you have the 
capacity for living.” 

Her hand fell upon his with a little gesture which was 


WOMAN’S WILES 89 

half a caress. He looked around him as though seeking 
for escape. He was on his feet now and he clutched at his 
hat. 

“ I must go,” he insisted almost roughly. 

“Am I keeping you?” she asked innocently. “Well, 
you shall go as soon as you please, only you must promise 
me one thing. You must come back, say within a week, 
and let me know how my sister is. I am not half so brutal 
as you think. I really am anxious about her. Please!” 

“I will promise that,” he answered. 

“Wait one moment, then,” she begged, turning to the 
letters by her side. “There is just something I want to 
ask you. Don’t be impatient — it is entirely a matter of 
business.” 

All the time he was acutely conscious of that restless 
desire to get out of the room. The woman’s white arms, 
from which the sleeves of her blue gown had fallen back, 
were stretched towards him as she lazily turned over her 
pile of correspondence. They were very beautiful arms 
and Tavernake, although he had had no experience, was 
dimly aware of the fact. Her eyes, too, seemed always to 
be trying to reach some part of him which was dead, or as 
yet unborn. He could feel her striving to get there, beat- 
ing against the walls of his indifference. Why should a 
woman wear blue stockings because she had a blue gown, 
he wondered idly. She was not like Beatrice, this alluring, 
beautiful woman, who lay there talking to him in a manner 
whose meaning came to him only in strange, bewildering 
flashes. He could be with Beatrice and feel the truth of 
what he had once told her — that her sex was a thing 
which need not even be taken into account between them. 
With this woman it was different; he felt that she wished 
it to be different. 


go THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Perhaps you had better tell me about that matter of 
business next time I am here,” he suggested, with an 
abruptness which was almost brusque. “I must go now. 
I do not know why I have stayed so long.” 

She held out her fingers. 

“You are a very sudden person,” she declared, smiling 
at his discomfiture. “If you must go!” 

He scarcely touched her hand, anxious only to get 
away. And then the door opened and a man of some- 
what remarkable appearance entered the room with the 
air of a privileged person. He was oddly dressed, with 
little regard to the fashion of the moment. His black 
coat was cut after the mode of a past generation, his collar 
was of the type affected by Gladstone and his fellow- 
statesmen, his black bow was arranged with studied negli- 
gence and he showed more frilled white shirt-front than is 
usual in the daytime. His silk hat was glossy but broad- 
brimmed; his masses of gray hair, brushed back from a 
high, broad forehead, gave him almost a patriarchal as- 
pect. His features were large and fairly well-shaped, but 
his mouth was weak and his cheeks lacked the color of a 
healthy life. Tavernake stared at him open-mouthed. 
He, for his part, looked at Tavernake as he might have 
looked at some strange wild animal. 

“A thousand apologies, dear Elizabeth!” he exclaimed. 
“I knocked, but I imagine that you did not hear me. 
Knowing your habits, it did not occur to me that you 
might be engaged at this hour of the morning.” 

“It is a young man from the house agent’s,” she 
announced indifferently, “come to see me about a 
flat.” 

“In that case,” he suggested amiably, “I am, perhaps, 
not in the way.” 


WOMAN’S WILES 91 

Elizabeth turned her head slightly and looked at him; 
he backed precipitately toward the door. 

“In a few minutes,” he said. “I will return in a few 
minutes.” 

Tavernake attempted to follow his example. 

“There is no occasion for your friend to leave,” he pro- 
tested. “If you have any instructions for us, a note 
to the office will always bring some one here to see 
you.” 

She sat up on the couch and smiled at him. His ob- 
vious embarrassment amused her. It was a new sort of 
game, this, altogether. 

“Come, Mr. Tavernake,” she said, “three minutes 
more won’t matter, will it? I will not keep you longer 
than that, I promise.” 

He came reluctantly a few steps back. 

“I am sorry,” he explained, “but we really are busy 
this morning.” 

“This is business,” she declared, still smiling at him 
pleasantly. “My sister has filled you with suspicions 
about me. Some of them may be justifiable, some are not. 
I am not so rich as I should like some people to believe. 
It is so much easier to five well, you know, when people 
believe that you are rolling in money. Still, I am by no 
means a pauper. I cannot afford to take Grantham House, 
but neither can I afford to go on living here. I have de- 
cided to make a change, to try and economize, to try and 
live within my means. Now will you bring me a list of 
small houses or flats, something at not more than say two 
or three hundred a year? It shall be strictly a business 
proceeding. I will pay you for your time, if that is neces- 
sary, and your commission in advance. There, you can’t 
refuse my offer on those terms, can you? ” 


92 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Tavernake remained silent. He was conscious that his 
lack of response seemed both sullen and awkward, but he 
was for the moment tongue-tied. His habit of inoppor- 
tune self-analysis had once more asserted itself. He 
could not understand the curious nature of his mistrust 
of this woman, nor could he understand the pleasure 
which her suggestion gave him. He wanted to refuse, and 
yet he was glad to be able to tell himself that he was, after 
all, but an employee of his firm and not in a position to 
decline business on their behalf. 

She leaned a little towards him; her tone was almost 
beseeching. 

“You are not going to be unkind? You will not refuse 
me?” she pleaded. 

“I will bring you a list,” he answered heavily, “on the 
terms you suggest.” 

“To-morrow morning?” she begged. 

“As soon as I am able,” he promised. 

Then he escaped. Outside in the corridor, the man 
who had interrupted his interview was walking backwards 
and forwards. Tavernake passed him without respond- 
ing to his bland greeting. He forgot all about the lift and 
descended five flights of stairs. . . . 

A few minutes later, he presented himself at the office 
and reported that Mrs. Wenham Gardner had decided 
unfavorably about Grantham House, and that she was 
not disposed, indeed, to take premises of anything like 
such a rental. Mr. Dowling was disappointed, and in- 
clined to think that his employee had mismanaged the 
affair. 

“I wish that I had gone myself,” he declared. “She 
obviously wished me to, but it happened to be incon- 
venient. By-the-bye, Tavernake, close the door, will 


WOMAN’S WILES 


93 

you? There is another matter concerning which I should 
like to speak to you.” 

Tavernake did as he was bidden at once, without any 
disquietude. His own services to the firm were of such 
a nature that he had no misgiving whatever as to his 
employer’s desire for a private interview. 

“It is about the Marston Rise estate,” Mr. Dowling 
explained, arranging his 'pince nez. “I believe that the 
time is coming when some sort of overtures should be 
made. You know what has been in my mind for a very 
considerable time.” 

Tavernake nodded. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “I know quite well.” 

“I did hear a rumor,” Mr. Dowling continued, “that 
some one had bought one small plot on the outskirts of 
the estate. I dare say it is not true, and in any case 
it is not worth while troubling about, but it shows 
that the public is beginning to nibble. I am of opinion 
that the time is almost — yes, almost ripe for a 
move.” 

“Do you wish me to do anything in the matter, sir?” 
Tavernake asked. 

“In the first place,” Mr. Dowling declared,' “I should 
like you to try to find out whether any of the plots 
have really been sold, and, if so, to whom, and what 
would be their price. Can you do this during the 
week?” 

“I think so,” Tavernake answered. 

“Say Monday morning,” Mr. Dowling suggested, 
taking down his hat. “I shall be playing golf to-morrow 
and Friday, and of course Saturday. Monday morning 
you might let me have a report.” 

Tavernake went back to his office. After all, then, 


94 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

things were to come to a crisis a little earlier than he had 
thought. He knew quite well that that report, if he made 
it honestly, and no other idea was likely to occur to him, 
would effectually sever his connection with Messrs. Dowl- 
ing, Spence & Company. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE PLOT THICKENS 

The man whom Tavernake had left walking up and down 
the corridor lost no time in presenting himself once more 
at the apartments of Mrs. Wenham Gardner. He entered 
the suite without ceremony, carefully closing both doors 
behind him. It became obvious then that his deport- 
ment on the occasion of his previous appearance had 
been in the nature of a bluff. The air with which he 
looked across the room at the woman who watched him 
was furtive; the hand which laid his hat upon the table 
was shaking; there was a gleam almost of terror in 
his eyes. The woman remained impassive, inscrutable, 
simply watching him. After a moment or two, however, 
she spoke — a single monosyllable. 

“Well?’* 

The man broke down. 

“Elizabeth,” he exclaimed, '‘you are too — too ghastly! 
I can’t stand it. You are unnatural.” 

She stretched herself upon the couch and turned towards 
him. 

“Unnatural, am I?” she remarked. “And what are 
you?” 

He sank into a chair. He had become very flabby 
indeed. 

“What you are always calling me, I suppose,” he mut- 


96 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

tered, — “a coward. You have so little consideration, 
Elizabeth. My health is n’t what it was.” 

His eyes had wandered longingly toward the cupboard 
at the further end of the apartment. The woman upon 
the couch smiled. 

“You may help yourself,” she directed carelessly. 
“Perhaps then you will be able to tell me why you have 
come in such a state.” 

He crossed the room in a few hasty steps, his head and 
shoulders disappeared inside the cupboard. There was 
the sound of the withdrawal of a cork, the fizz of a soda- 
water syphon. He returned to his place a different 
man. 

“You must remember my age, Elizabeth dear,” he 
said, apologetically. “I haven’t your nerve — it isn’t 
likely that I should have. When I was twenty-five, there 
was nothing in the world of which I was afraid.” 

She looked him over critically. 

“Perhaps I am not so absolutely courageous as you 
think,” she remarked. “To tell you the truth, there are 
a good many things of which I am afraid when you come 
to me in such a state. I am afraid of you, of what you 
will do or say.” 

“You need not be,” he assured her hastily. “When 
I am away from you, I am dumb. What I suffer no one 
knows. I keep it to myself.” 

She nodded, a little contemptuously. 

“I suppose you do your best,” she declared. “Tell 
me, now, what is this fresh thing which has disturbed 
you?” 

Her visitor stared at her. 

“Does there need to be any fresh thing?” he muttered. 

“I suppose it is something about Wenham?” she asked. 


THE PLOT THICKENS 


97 

The man shivered. He opened his lips and closed them 
again. The woman’s tone, if possible, grew colder. 

“I hope you are not going to tell me that you have 
disobeyed my orders,” she said. 

“No,” he protested, “no! I was there yesterday. I 
came back by the mail from Penzance. I had to motor 
thirty miles to catch it.” 

“Something has happened, of course,” she went on, 
“something which you are afraid to tell me. Sit up 
like a man, my dear father, and let me have the 
truth.” 

“Nothing fresh has happened at all,” he assured her. 
“It is simply that the memory of the day I spent at that 
place and that the sight of him has got on my nerves till 
I can’t sleep or think of anything else.” 

“What rubbish!” she exclaimed. 

“You have only seen the place in fine weather,” he 
continued, dropping his voice a little. “Elizabeth, you 
have no idea what it is really like. Yesterday morning 
I got out of the train at Bodmin and I motored through 
to the village of Clawes. After that there were five miles 
to walk. There ’s no road, only a sort of broken track, 
and for the whole of that five miles there is n’t even a 
farm building to be seen and I did n’t meet a human soul. 
There was a sort of pall of white-gray mists everywhere 
over the moor, sometimes so dense that I could n’t see 
my way, and you could stop and listen and there was n’t 
a thing to be heard, not even a sheep bell.” 

She laughed softly. 

“My dear, foolish father,” she murmured, “you don’t 
understand what a rest cure is. This is quite all right, 
quite as it should be. Poor Wenham has been seeing too 
many people all his life — that is why we have to keep 


98 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

him quiet for a time. You can skip the scenery. I sup- 
pose you got to the house at last?” 

“Yes, I got there,” continued her father. “You 
know what a bleak-looking place it is, right on the side 
of a bare hill — a square, gray stone place just the color 
of the hillside. Well, I got there and walked in. There 
was Ted Mathers, half dressed, no collar, with a bottle 
of whiskey on the table, playing some wretched game of 
cards by himself. Elizabeth, what a brute that man is!” 

She shook her head. 

“Go on,” she said. “What about Wenham?” 

“He was there in a corner, gazing out of the window. 
When I came he sprang up, but when he saw who it was, 
he — he tried to hide. He was afraid of me.” 

“Why?” she asked. 

“He said that I — I reminded him of you.” 

“Absurd!” she murmured. “Tell me, how did he 
look?” 

“Ill, wretched, paler and thinner than ever, and wilder 
looking.” 

“What did Mathers say about him?” she demanded. 

“What could he? He told me that he cried all day 
and begged to be taken back to America.” 

“No one goes near the place, I suppose?” she asked. 

“Not a soul. A man comes from the village to sell 
things once a week. Mathers knows when to expect 
him and takes care that Wenham is not around. They 
are out of the world there — no road, no paths, nothing 
to bring even a tourist. I could have imagined such a 
spot in Arizona, Elizabeth, but in England — no!” 

“Has he any amusements at all?” she inquired. 

The man’s hands were shaking; once more his eyes 
went longingly toward the cupboard. 


THE PLOT THICKENS 


99 

“He has made — a doll,” he said, “carved it out of a 
piece of wood and dressed it in oddments from his ties. 
Mathers showed it to me as a joke. Elizabeth, it was 
wonderful — horrible!” 

“Why?” she asked him. 

“It is you,” he continued, moistening his lips with his 
tongue, “you, in a blue gown — your favorite shade. 
He has even made blue stockings and strange little shoes. 
He has got some hair from somewhere and parted it just 
like yours.” 

“It sounds very touching,” she remarked. 

The man was shivering again. 

“Elizabeth,” he said, “I do not think that he means 
it kindly. Mathers took me up into his room. He has 
made something there which looks like a scaffold. The 
doll was hanging by a piece of string from the gallows. 
Elizabeth! — my God, but it was like you!” he cried, 
suddenly dropping his head upon his arms. 

For a moment, a reflection of the terror which had 
seized him flashed in her own face. It passed quickly 
away. She laughed mockingly. 

“My dear father,” she protested, “you are certainly 
not yourself this morning.” 

“I saw you swinging,” he muttered, “swinging by that 
piece of cord! There was a great black pin through your 
heart. Elizabeth, if he should get away sometime! If 
some one should come over from America and discover 
where he was! If he should find us out! Oh, my God, 
if he should find us out!” 

Elizabeth had risen to her feet. She was standing 
now before the fire, her left elbow resting upon the 
mantelpiece, a trifle of silver gleaming in her right 
hand. 


100 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Father,” she said, “there is no danger in life for those 
who know no fear. Look at me.” 

His eyes sought hers, fascinated. 

“If he should find me out,” she continued, “it would 
be no such terrible thing, after all. It would be the end.” 

Her fingers disclosed the little ornament she was carry- 
ing — a tiny pistol. She slipped it back into her pocket. 
The man was wondering how such a thing as this came 
to be his daughter. 

“You have courage, Elizabeth,” he whispered. 

“I have courage,” she assented, “because I have brains. 
I never allow myself to be in a position where I should 
be likely to get the worst of it. Ever since the day when 
he turned so suddenly against me, I have been careful.” 

Her father leaned towards her. 

“Elizabeth,” he said, “I never really understood. 
What was it that came over him so suddenly? One day 
he was your slave, the next I think he would have mur- 
dered you if he could.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Honestly,” she replied, “I felt it impossible to keep 
up the sham any longer. I married Wenham Gardner in 
New York because he was supposed to be a millionaire 
and because it seemed to be the best thing to do, but as 
to living with him, I never meant that. You know how 
ridiculous his behavior was on the boat. He never let 
me out of his sight, but swore that he was going to give 
up smoking and drinking and lead a new life for my sake. 
I really believe he meant it, too.” 

“Wouldn’t it have been better, dear,” her father 
suggested, timidly, “to have encouraged him?” 

She shook her head. 

“He was absolutely hopeless,” she declared. “You 


THE PLOT THICKENS 


lOI 


say that I have no nerves; that is because I do not allow 
myself to suffer. If I had gone on living with Wenham, 
it would have driven me mad. His habits, his manner of 
life, everything disgusted me. Until I came to see so 
much of him, I never understood what the term ‘ decadent ’ 
really can mean. The very touch of him grew to be hate- 
ful. No woman could live with such a man. By the way, 
he signed the draft, I suppose?” 

Her father handed her a slip of paper, which she looked 
at and locked in her drawer. 

“Did he make any trouble about it?” she asked. 

The professor shivered. 

“He refused to sign it,” he said, in a low tone, “swore 
he would never sign it. Mathers sent me out for a few 
minutes, made me go into another room. When I came 
back, he gave me the draft. I heard him calling out.” 

“Mathers certainly earns his money,” she remarked, 
drily. 

He gazed at her with grudging admiration. This was 
his daughter, his own flesh and blood. Back through the 
years, for a moment, he seemed to see her, a child with 
hair down her back, sitting on his knee, listening to his 
stories, wondering at the little arts and tricks by which 
he had wrested their pennies and sixpennies from a 
credulous public. Phrenologist, hypnotist, conjurer — 
all these things the great Professor Franklin had called 
himself. Often, from the rude stage where he had given 
his performance, he had terrified to death the women 
and children of his audience. It flashed upon him at that 
moment that never, even in the days of her childhood, 
had he seen fear in Elizabeth’s face. 

“You should have been a man, Elizabeth,” he mut- 
tered. 


102 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


She shook her head, smiling as though not ill-pleased 
at the compliment. 

“The power of a man is so limited,” she declared. “A 
woman has more weapons.” 

“More weapons indeed,” the professor agreed, as his 
eyes traveled over the slim yet wonderful perfection of her 
form, lingered for a moment at the little knot of lace at 
her throat, wrestled with the delicate sweetness of her 
features, struggling hard to think from whom among his 
ancestors could have come a creature so physically at- 
tractive. 

“More weapons, indeed,” he repeated. “Elizabeth, 
what a gift — what a gift!” 

“You speak,” she replied, “as though it were an evil 
one. 

“I was only thinking,” he said, “that it seems a pity. 
You are so wonderful, we might have found an easier 
and a less dangerous way to fortune.” 

She smiled. 

“The Bohemian blood in me, I suppose,” she remarked. 
“The crooked ways attract, you know, when one has 
been brought up as I was.” 

“Your poor mother had no love for them,” he reminded 
her. 

“Beatrice has inherited everything that belonged to 
my mother. I am your own daughter, father. You ought 
to be proud of me. But there, I gave you another com- 
mission. Is it true that Jerry is really here?” 

“He arrived in England on Wednesday on the Lusi- 
tania. He has been in town all the time since.” 

A distinct frown darkened her face. 

“He must have had my letter, then,” she murmured, 
half to herself. 


THE PLOT THICKENS 103 

“Without a doubt,’’ her father admitted. “Elizabeth, 
why do you take chances about seeing this man.?^ He was 
fond of you in New York, I know, but then he was fond of 
his brother, too. He may not believe your story. It may 
be dangerous.” 

She smiled. 

“I think I can convince Jerry Gardner of anything I 
choose to tell him,” she said. “Besides, it is absolutely 
necessary that I have some information about Wenham’s 
affairs. He must have a great deal more money some- 
where and I must find out how we are to get at it.” 

The professor shook his head. 

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Supposing he finds 
Beatrice!” 

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. 

“Beatrice is made of silent stuff,” she declared. “I 
should never be afraid of her. All the same, I wish I could 
find out just where she is. It would look better if we were 
living together.” 

The professor shook his head sadly. 

“She left us of her own free will,” he said, “and I don’t 
believe, Elizabeth, that she would ever come back again. 
She knew very well what she was doing. She knew that our 
views of life were not hers. She did n’t know half but 
she knew enough. You were quite right in what you said 
just now; Beatrice was more like her mother, and her 
mother was a good woman.” 

“Really!” Elizabeth remarked, insolently. 

“Don’t answer like that,” he blustered, striking the 
table. “She was your mother, too.” 

The woman’s face was inscrutable, hard, and fiawless 
behind the little cloud of tobacco smoke. The man began 
to tremble once more. Every time he ventured to assert 


104 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

himself, a single look from her was sufficient to quell 
him. 

‘‘Elizabeth,” he muttered, “you haven’t a heart, 
you have n’t a soul, you have n’t a conscience. I wonder 
— what sort of a woman you are! ” 

“I am your daughter,” she reminded him, pleasantly. 

“I was never quite so bad as that,” he went on, taking 
a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing 
his forehead. “I had to live and times were hard. I 
have cheated the public, perhaps. I have n’t been above 
playing at cards a little cleverly, or making something 
where I could out of the weaker men. But, Elizabeth, I 
am afraid of you.” 

“Men are generally afraid of the big stakes,” she 
remarked, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “They 
will cheat and lie for halfpennies, but they are bad gam- 
blers when life or death — the big things are in the bal- 
ance. Bah ! ” she went on. “ Father, I want Jerry Gardner 
to come and see me.” 

“If you can’t make him come, my dear,” the professor 
said, “I am sure it will be of no use my trying.” 

“He has had my letter,” she continued, half to herself; 
“he has had my letter and he does not come.” 

“There is nothing to be done but wait,” her father 
decided. 

“And meanwhile,” she went on, “supposing he were 
to discover Beatrice, supposing they two were to come 
together; supposing he were to tell her what he knows 
and she were to tell him what she guessed!” 

The professor buried his face in his hands. Elizabeth 
threw her cigarette away with an impatient gesture. 

“What an idiot I am!” she declared. “What is the use 
of wasting time like this?” 


THE PLOT THICKENS 


105 

There was a knock at the door. A trim-looking French 
maid presented herself. She addressed her mistress in 
voluble French. A coiffeur and a manicurist were waiting 
in the next apartment; it was time that Madame habited 
herself. The professor listened to these announcements 
with an air of half-admiring wonder. 

“I suppose I must be going,’* he said, rising to his 
feet. “There is just one thing I should like to ask you, 
Elizabeth, if I may, before I go.” 

“Well?” 

“Who was the young man whom I met here just now?” 

“Why do you ask that?” she demanded. 

“I really do not know,” her father replied, thought- 
fully, “except that his appearance seemed a little singular. 
In some respects he appeared so commonplace. His 
clothes and bearing, in fact, were so ordinary that I was 
surprised to find him here with you. And, on the other 
hand, his face — you must remember, my dear, that this 
is entirely a professional instinct; I am still interested 
in faces — ” 

“Quite so,” she admitted. “Go on. The young man 
rather puzzles me myself. I should like to hear what 
you make of him. What did you think of his face?” 

“There was something powerful about it,” he declared, 
“ something dogged, splendid, narrow, impossible, — the 
sort of face which belongs to a man who achieves great 
things because he is too stupid to recognize failure, even 
when it has him in its arms .and its fingers are upon his 
throat. That young man has qualities, my dear, I am 
sure. Mind you, at present they are dormant, but he 
has qualities.” 

She led him to the door. 

“My dear father,” she said, “sometimes I really respect 


io6 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


you. If you should come across that young man again, 
keep your eye upon him. He knows one thing at least 
which I wish he would tell us — he knows where Beatrice 
is.” 

Her father looked at her in amazement. 

“He knows where Beatrice is and he has not told you?” 

She nodded. 

“You tried to have him tell you and he refused?” the 
professor persisted. 

“Exactly,” she admitted. 

Her father put on his hat. 

“I knew that young man was something out of the 
common.” 


CHAPTER X 


THE JOY OF BATTLE 

They sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, in the topmost 
corner of the field. In the hedge, close at hand, was a 
commotion of birds. In the elm tree, a little further 
away, a thrush was singing. A soft west wind blew in 
their faces; the air immediately around them was filled 
with sunlight. Yet almost to their feet stretched one of 
those great arms of the city — a suburb, with its miles 
of villas, its clanging of electric cars, its waste plots, its 
rows of struggling shops. And only a little further away 
still, the body itself — the huge city, throbbing beneath 
its pall of smoke and cloud. The girl, who had been 
gazing steadily downwards for several moments, turned 
at last to her companion. 

“Do you know,” she said, “that this makes me think 
of the first night you spoke to me? You remember it — 
up on the roof at Blenheim House?” 

Tavernake did not answer for a moment. He was 
looking! through a queerly-shaped instrument that he 
had brought with him at half-a-dozen stakes that he 
had laboriously driven into the ground some distance 
away. He was absolutely absorbed in his task. 

“The main avenue,” he muttered softly to himself. 
“Yes, it must be a trifle more to the left. Then we get 
all the offshoots parallel and the better houses have their 


io8 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


southern aspect. I beg your pardon, Beatrice, did you 
say anything?” he broke off suddenly. 

She smiled. 

“Nothing worth mentioning. I was just thinking that 
it reminded me a little up here of the first time you and 
I ever talked together.” 

He glanced down at the panorama below, with its odd 
jumble of hideous buildings, softened here and there with 
wreaths of sun-stained smoke, its great blots of ugliness 
irredeemable, insistent. 

“It’s different, of course,” she went on. “I remember, 
even now, the view from the house-top that night. In a 
sense, it was finer than this; everything was more lurid 
and yet more chaotic; one simply felt that underneath 
all those mysterious places was some great being, toiling 
and struggling — Life itself, groaning through space with 
human cogwheels. Up here one sees too much. Oh, my 
dear Leonard,” she continued, “to think that you, too, 
should be one of the devastators!” 

He fitted his instrument into its case and replaced it 
in his pocket. 

“Come,” he said, “you mustn’t call me hard names. 
I shall remind you of the man whose works you are mak- 
ing me read. You know what he says — ‘ The aesthete 
is, after all, only a dallier. The world lives and pro- 
gresses by reason of its utilitarians.’ This hill represents 
to me most of the things that are worth having in life.” 

She laughed shortly. 

“You will cut down those hedges and drive away the 
birds to find a fresh home; you will plough up the green 
grass, cut out a street and lay down granite stones. Then 
I see your ugly little houses coming up like mushrooms 
all over the place. You are a vandal, my dear Leonard.” 


THE JOY OF BATTLE 109 

“I am simply obeying the law,” he answered. “After 
all, even from your own point of view, I do not think 
that it is so bad. Look closer, and you will find that 
the hedges are blackened here and there with smuts. 
The birds will find a better dwelling place further away. 
See how the smoke from those factory chimneys is send- 
ing its smuts across these fields. They are no longer 
country; they are better gathered in.” 

She shivered. 

“There is something about life,” she said, sadly, “which 
terrifies me. Every force that counts seems to be de- 
structive.” 

Up the steep hill behind them came the pufling and 
groaning of a small motor-car. They both turned their 
heads to watch it come into view. It was an insignificant 
affair of an almost extinct pattern, a single cylinder 
machine with a round tonneau back. The engine was 
knocking badly as the driver brought it to a standstill 
a few yards away from them. Involuntarily Tavernake 
stiffened as he saw the two men who descended from it, 
and who were already passing through the gate close to 
where they were. One was Mr. Dowling, the other the 
manager of the bank where they kept their account. 
Mr. Dowling recognized his manager with surprise but 
much cordiality. 

“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “Dear me, this is most 
fortunate! You know Mr. Tavernake, of course, Belton.^ 
My manager, Mr. Tavernake — Mr. Belton, of the London 
& Westminster Bank. I have brought Mr. Belton up 
here, Tavernake, to have a look round, so that he may 
know what we mean to do with all the money we shall 
have to come and borrow, eh?” 

The bank manager smiled. 


no THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“It is a very fine situation,” he remarked. 

The eyes of the two men fell upon Beatrice, who had 
drawn a little to one side. 

“May we have the pleasure, Tavernake?” Mr. Dowling 
said, graciously. “You are not married, I believe.^^” 

“No, this is my sister,” Tavernake answered, slowly, — 
“Mr. Belton and Mr. Dowling.” 

The two men acknowledged the salute with some slight 
surprise. Beatrice, although her clothes were simple, had 
always the air of belonging to a different world. 

“Your brother, my dear Miss Tavernake,” Mr. Dowling 
declared, “is a perfect genius at discovering these desir- 
able sites. This one I honestly consider to be the find of 
our lifetime. We have now,” he proceeded, turning to 
Mr. Belton, “certain information that the cars will run 
to whatever point we desire in this vicinity, and the 
Metropolitan Railway has also arranged for an extension 
of its system. To-morrow I propose,” Mr. Dowling 
continued, holding the sides of his coat and assuming a 
somewhat pompous manner, “to make an offer for the 
whole of this site. It will involve a very large sum of 
money indeed, but I am convinced that it will be a re- 
munerative speculation.” 

Tavernake remained grimly silent. This was scarcely 
the time or the place which he would have selected for 
an explanation with his employer. There were signs, 
however, that the thing was to be forced upon him. 

“I am very pleased indeed to meet you here, Taver- 
nake,” Mr. Dowling went on, “pleased both for personal 
reasons and because it shows, if I may be allowed to say 
so, the interest which you take in the firm’s business, 
that you should devote your holiday to coming and — er 
— surveying the scene of our exploits, so to speak. Per- 


Ill 


THE JOY OF BATTLE 

haps now that you are here you would be able to explain 
to Mr. Belton better than I should, just what it is that 
we propose.” 

Tavernake hesitated for a moment. Finally, however, 
he proceeded to make clear a very elaborate and care- 
fully thought out building scheme, to which both men 
listened with much attention. When he had finished, 
however, he turned round to Mr. Dowling, facing him 
squarely. 

“You will understand, sir,” he concluded, “that a 
scheme such as I have pointed out could only be carried 
through if the whole of the property were in one person’s 
hands. I may say that the information to which you 
referred a few days ago was perfectly correct. A con- 
siderable portion of the south side of the hill has already 
been purchased, besides certain other plots which would 
interfere considerably with any comprehensive scheme of 
building.” 

Mr. Dowling’s face fell at once; his tone was one of 
annoyance mingled with irritation. 

“Come, come,” he declared, “this sounds very bad, 
Mr. Tavernake, very neglectful, very careless as to the 
interests of the firm. Why did we not keep our eye upon 
it.^ Why did we not forestall this other purchaser, eh? 
It appears to me that we have been slack, very slack 
indeed.” 

Tavernake took a small book from his pocket. 

“You will remember, sir,” he said, “that it was on the 
eleventh of May last year when I first spoke to you of 
this site.” 

“Well, well,” Mr. Dowling exclaimed, sharply, “what 
of it?” 

“You were starting out for a fortnight’s golf some- 


II2 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


where,’* Tavernake continued, “and you promised to look 
into the affair when you returned. I spoke to you again 
but you declared that you were far too busy to go into 
the matter at all for the present, you did n’t care about 
this side of London, you considered that we had enough 
on hand — in fact, you threw cold water upon the idea.” 

“I may not have been very enthusiastic at first,” Mr. 
Dowling admitted, grudgingly. “Latterly, however, I 
have come round to your views.” 

“There have been several articles in various news- 
papers, and a good deal of talk,” Tavernake remarked, 
“ which have been more effectual, I think, in bringing you 
round, than my advice. However, what I wish to say to 
you is this, sir, that when I found myself unable to interest 
you in this scheme, I went into it myself to some extent.” 

“Went into it yourself?” Mr. Dowling repeated, in- 
credulously. “What do you mean, Tavernake? What 
do you mean, sir?” 

“I mean that I have invested my savings in the pur- 
chase of several plots of land upon this hillside,” Taver- 
nake explained. 

“On your own account?” Mr. Dowling demanded. 
“Your savings, indeed!” 

“Certainly,” Tavernake answered. “Why not?” 

“But it’s the firm’s business, sir — the firm’s, not 
yours ! ” 

“The firm had the opportunity,” Tavernake pointed 
out, “and were not inclined to avail themselves of it. 
If I had not bought the land when I did, some one else 
would have bought the whole of it long ago.” 

Mr. Dowling was obviously in a furious temper. 

“Do you mean to tell me, sir,” he exclaimed, “that you 
dared to enter into private speculations while still an 


THE JOY OF BATTLE 113 

employee of the firm? It is a most unheard-of thing, 
unwarranted, ridiculous. I shall require you, sir, to at 
once make over the plots of land to us — to the firm, you 
understand. We shall give you your price, of course, 
although I expect you paid much more for it than we 
should have done. Still, we must give you what you 
paid, and four per cent interest for your money.” 

“I am sorry,” Tavernake replied, “but I am afraid 
that I should require better terms than that. In fact,” 
he continued, “I do not wish to sell. I have given a 
great deal of thought and time to this matter, and I 
intend to carry it out as a personal speculation.” 

“Then you will carry it out, sir, from some other place 
than from within the walls of my office,” Mr. Dowling 
declared, furiously. “You understand that, Tavernake?” 

“Perfectly,” Tavernake answered. “You wish me to 
leave you. It is very unwise of you to suggest it, but I 
am quite prepared to go.” 

“You will either resell me those plots at cost price, 
or you shall not set foot within the office again,” Mr. 
Dowling insisted. “It is a gross breach of faith, this. I 
never heard of such a thing in all my life. Most unpro- 
fessional, impossible behavior!” 

Tavernake showed no signs of anger — he simply 
turned a little away. 

“I shall not sell you my land, Mr. Dowling,” he said, 
“and it will suit me very well to leave your employ. You 
appear,” he continued, “to expect some one else to do 
the whole of the work for you while you reap the entire 
profits. Those days have gone by. My business in the 
world is to make a fortune for myself, and not for you!” 

“How dare you, sir!” Mr. Dowling cried. “I never 
heard such impertinence in my life.” 


II4 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“You haven’t done a stroke of work for five years,” 
Tavernake went on, unmoved, “and my efforts have sup- 
plied you with a fairly good income. In future, those 
efforts will be directed towards my own advancement.” 

Mr. Dowling turned back toward the car. 

“Young man,” he said, “you can brazen it out as much 
as you like, but you have been guilty of a gross breach of 
faith. I shall take care that the exact situation is made 
known in all responsible quarters. You ’ll get no situa- 
tion with any firm with whom I am acquainted — I can 
promise you that. If you have anything more to say to 
Dowling, Spence & Company, let it be in writing.” 

They parted company there and then. Tavernake and 
Beatrice went down the hill in silence. 

“Does this bother you at all?” she inquired presently. 

“Nothing to speak of,” Tavernake answered. “It had 
to come. I was n’t quite ready but that does n’t matter.” 

“What shall you do now?” she asked. 

“Borrow enough to buy the whole of the hill,” he 
replied. 

She looked back. 

“Won’t that mean a great deal of money?” 

He nodded. 

“ It will be a big thing, of course,” he admitted. “Never 
mind, I dare say I shall be able to interest some one in it. 
In any case, I never meant Mr. Dowling to make a for- 
tune out of this.” 

They walked on in silence a little further. Then she 
spoke again, with some hesitation. 

“I suppose that what you have done is quite fair, 
Leonard?” 

He answered her promptly, without any sign of offence 
at her question. 


THE JOY OF BATTLE 115 

“As a matter of fact,” he confessed, “it is an unusual 
thing for any one in the employ of a firm of estate agents 
to make speculations on their own account in land. In 
this case, however, I consider that I was justified. I have 
opened up three building speculations for the firm, on 
each one of which they have made a great deal of money, 
and I have not even had my salary increased, or any recog- 
nition whatever offered me. There is a debt, of course, 
which an employee owes to his employer. There is also a 
debt, however, which the employer owes to his employee. 
In my case I have never been treated with the slightest 
consideration of any sort. What I have done I shall stick 
to. After all, I am more interested in making money for 
myself than for other people.” 

They had reached the corner of the field now, and turn- 
ing into the lane commenced the steep descent. It was 
Sunday evening, and from all the little conventicles and 
tin churches below, the bells began their unmusical 
summons. From further away in the distance came the 
more melodious chiming from the Cathedral and the city 
churches. The shriller and nearer note, however, pre- 
vailed. The whole medley of sound was a discord. As 
they descended, they could see the black-coated throngs 
slowly moving towards the different places of worship. 
There was something uninspiring about it all. She shud- 
dered. 

“Leonard,” she said, “I wonder why you are so anxious 
to get on in the world. Why do you want to be rich?” 

He was glancing back toward the hill, the light of cal- 
culations in his eyes. Once more he was measuring out 
those plots of land, calculating rent, deducting interest. 

“We all seek different things,” he replied tolerantly, — 
“some fame, some pleasure. Mr. Dowling, for instance. 


ii6 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

has no other ambition than to muddle round the golf 
links a few strokes better than his partner.” 

“And you?” she asked. 

“It is success I seek,” he answered. “Women, as a 
rule, do not understand. You, for instance, Beatrice, are 
too sentimental. I am very practical. It is money that I 
want. I want money because money means success.” 

“And afterwards?” she whispered. 

He was attending to her no longer. They were turning 
now into the broad thoroughfare at the bottom of the 
lane, at the end of which a tram-car was waiting. He 
scribbled a few final notes into his pocket-book. 

“To-morrow,” he exclaimed, with the joy of battle in 
his tone, “to-morrow the fight begins in earnest!” 

Beatrice passed her hand through his arm. 

“Not only for you, dear friend, but for me,” she said. 
“For you? What do you mean?” he asked quickly. 

“ I have been trying to tell you all day,” she continued, 
“but you have been too engrossed. Yesterday afternoon 
I went to see Mr. Grier at the Atlas Theatre. I had my 
voice tried, and to-morrow night I am going to take a 
small part in the new musical comedy.” 

Tavernake stared at her in something like consternation. 
His ideas as to the stage and all that belonged to it were 
of a primitive order. Mrs. Fitzgerald was perhaps as near 
as possible to his idea of the type. He glanced incredu- 
lously at Beatrice — slim, quietly dressed, yet with the 
unmistakable, to him mysterious, distinction of breeding. 

“You an actress!” he exclaimed. 

She laughed softly. 

“Dear Leonard,” she said, “this is going to be a part of 
your education. To-morrow night you shall come to the 
theatre and wait for me at the stage-door.” 


CHAPTER XI 


A BEWILDERING OFFER 

Elizabeth stood with her hands behind her back, leaning 
slightly against the writing-table. The professor, with 
his broad-brimmed hat clinched in his fingers, walked 
restlessly up and down the little room. The discussion 
had not been altogether a pleasant one. Elizabeth was 
composed but serious, her father nervous and excited. 

“You are mad, Elizabeth!” he declared. “Is it that 
you do not understand, or will not? I tell you that we 
must go.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Where would you drag me to?” she asked. “We cer- 
tainly can’t go back to New York.” 

He turned fiercely upon her. 

“Whose fault is it that we can’t?” he demanded. “If 
it were n’t for you and your confounded schemes, I could 
be walking down Broadway next week. God’s own city 
it is, too!” he muttered. “I wish we ’d never seen those 
two young men.” 

“It was a pity, perhaps,” she admitted, “yet we had to 
do something. We were absolutely stonybroke, as they 
say over here.” 

“Anyway, we ’ve got to get out of this,” the professor 
declared. 

“My dear father,” she replied, “I will agree that if a 
new city or a new world could arise from the bottom of the 


ii8 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


sea, where Professor Franklin was unknown, and his 
beautiful daughter Elizabeth had never been heard of, it 
might perhaps be advisable for us to go there. As it is — ” 

“There is Rome,” he exclaimed, “or some of the smaller 
places ! We have money for a time. We could get another 
draft, perhaps, from Wenham.” 

She shook her head. 

“We are just as safe here as anywhere on the Conti- 
nent,” she remarked. 

He struck the table with the palm of his hand. 

“As safe here!” he repeated. “Haven’t I told you 
that Pritchard is in this very hotel? What does he want? 
He passed me an hour ago, patted me on the shoulder — 
curse his impudence! — and asked me how the show was 
going. You saw the New York Herald? They actually 
hinted that the Gardner family had sent him over to find 
Wenham.” 

She laughed hardly. 

“Well, if Pritchard wants us,” she acknowledged, “it 
won’t be much use our hurrying away.” 

“He ’ll find Wenham,” the professor declared. “He ’ll 
hunt him out, somehow or other.” 

“I am not afraid of Wenham,” Elizabeth said slowly. 
“There was a time when he came to me with murder in 
his heart, the first time when he began to understand. 
There was no one else about, we were absolutely alone. I 
said nothing, I never raised my finger. Wenham came as 
close to me as you are now, and I looked at him.” 

“Well?” demanded the professor, breathlessly. 

“He drew a long breath and then his hands fell to his 
side,” she continued. “Afterwards he sobbed a little and 
became quite reasonable. Men are what you make them, 
father. If you believe in yourself, you triumph. I am not 


A BEWILDERING OFFER 


119 

going to run away from any one. If you are afraid, you 
can have haK the money we have left, and go where you 
will.” 

He sat down, wringing his hands helplessly. 

“My child,” he exclaimed, “you know very well that I 
dare not go alone! My nerves are in such a state, it would 
not be possible.” 

“Then stay,” she told him briefly. 

“It chokes me,” he went on, looking at her fearfully, 
“this atmosphere, the feeling that Pritchard is watching 
all the time, wondering what we have done with Wenham, 
wondering where our money comes from. Elizabeth, what 
is there in London that holds you?” 

“My vanity, perhaps,” she laughed. “Anyhow, I mean 
to stay.” 

The telephone on the table rang. She took up the re- 
ceiver. 

“You can send the young man up in five minutes,” she 
said. 

“Who is it?” her father asked. 

“The young man who called the other day,” she re- 
plied, — “Mr. Tavemake.” 

The professor’s face darkened. 

“Again!” he exclaimed. “What does he want, that 
young man? What have you to do with him? You do not 
want a flat, you do not want a house. It is all a bluff, this. 
What use is he? What purpose can he serve?” 

She smiled at him tolerantly, as one might smile at an 
angry child. No line of her features betrayed any sense of 
annoyance or even impatience. 

“My dear father,” she answered, “you cannot possibly 
understand the reason for everything I do. Why worry 
about this unfortunate young man?” 


120 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Once more he struck the table. Then he threw out his 
hands above his head with the melodramatic instinct 
which had always been strong in his blood. 

“Do you think that I am a fool?” he cried. “Do you 
think I do not know that if there were not something 
moving in your brain you would think no more of that 
clerk, that bourgeois estate agent, than of the door-mat 
beneath your feet? It is what I always complain about. 
You make use of me as a tool. There are always things 
which I do not understand. He comes here, this young 
man, under a pretext, whether he knows it or not. You 
talk to him for an hour at a time. There should be noth- 
ing in your life which I do not know of, Elizabeth,” he 
continued, his voice suddenly hoarse as he leaned towards 
her. “Can’t you see that there is danger in friendships 
for you and for me, there is danger in intimacies of any 
sort? I share the danger; I have a right to share the 
knowledge. This young man has no money of his own, 
I take it. Of what use is he to us?” 

“You are too hasty, my dear father,” she replied. 
“Let me assure you that there is nothing at all mysterious 
about Mr. Tavernake. The simple truth is that the 
young man rather attracts me.” 

The professor gazed at her incredulously. 

“Attracts you! He!” 

“You have never perfectly understood me, my dear 
parent,” she murmured. “You have never appreciated 
that trait in my character, that strange preference, if 
you like, for the absolutely original. Now in all my 
life I never met such a young man as this. He 
wears the clothes and he has the features and speech 
of just such a person as you have described, but there is 
a difference.” 


A BEWILDERING OFFER 


I2I 


“A difference, indeed!” the professor interrupted 
roughly. “What difference, I should like to know?” 

She shrugged her shoulders lightly. 

“He is stolid without being stupid,” she explained. 
“He is entirely self-centered. I smile at him, and he waits 
patiently until I have finished to get on with our business. 
I have said quite nice things to him and he has stared at 
me without change of expression, absolutely without 
pleasure or emotion of any sort.” 

“You are too vain, Elizabeth,” her father declared. 
“You have been spoilt. There are a few people in the 
world whom even you might fail to charm. No doubt 
this young man is one of them.” 

She sighed gently. 

“It really does seem,” she admitted, “as though you 
were right, but we shall see. By-the-bye, hadn’t you 
better go? The five minutes are nearly up.” 

He came over to her side, his hat and gloves in his 
hand, prepared for departure. 

“Will you tell me, upon your honor, Elizabeth,” he 
begged, “that there is no other reason for your interest? 
That you are not engaged in any fresh schemes of which 
I know nothing? Things are bad enough as they are. I 
cannot sleep, I cannot rest, for thinking of our position. 
If I thought that you had any fresh plans on hand — ” 

She flicked the ash from her cigarette and checked him 
with a little gesture. 

“He knows where Beatrice is,” she remarked thought- 
fully, “and I can’t get him to tell me. There is nothing 
beyond that — absolutely nothibg.” . . . 

When Tavernake was announced, Elizabeth was still 
smoking, sitting in an easy-chair and looking into the fire. 
Something in her attitude, the droop of her head as it 


122 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


rested upon her fingers, reminded him suddenly of Bea- 
trice. He showed no other emotion than a sudden pause 
in his walk across the room. Even that, however, in a 
person whose machine-like attitude towards her pro- 
voked her resentment, was noticeable. 

“Good morning, my friend!” she said pleasantly. 
“You have brought me the fresh list?” 

' “Unfortunately, no, madam,” Tavernake answered. 
“I have called simply to announce that I am not able to 
be of any further assistance to you in the matter.” 

She looked at him for a moment without remark. 

“Are you serious, Mr. Tavernake?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he replied. “The fact is I am not in a position 
to help you. I have left the employ of Messrs. Dowling, 
Spence & Company.” 

“Of your own accord?” she inquired quietly. 

“No, I was dismissed,” he confessed. “I should have 
been compelled to leave in a very short time, but Mr. 
Dowling forestalled me.” 

“Won’t you sit down and tell me about it?” she invited. 

He looked her in the eyes, square and unflinching. He 
was still able to do that! 

“It could not possibly interest you,” he said. 

“And — my sister? You have seen her?” 

“I have seen your sister,” Tavernake answered, with- 
out hesitation. 

“You have a message for me?” 

“None,” he declared. 

“She refuses — to be reconciled, then?” 

“I am afraid she has no friendly feelings towards you.” 

“She gave you no reason?” 

“No direct reason,” he admitted, “but her attitude 
is — quite uncompromising.” 


A BEWILDERING OFFER 


123 

She rose and swept across the floor towards him. With 
firm but gentle fingers she took his worn bowler hat and 
mended gloves from his hand. Her gesture guided him 
towards a sofa. 

“Beatrice has prejudiced you against me,” she mur- 
mured. “ It is not fair. Please come and sit down — for 
five minutes,” she pleaded. “ I want you to tell me why 
you have quarrelled with that funny little man, Mr. 
Dowling.” 

“But, madam, — ” he protested. 

“If you refuse, I shall think that my sister has been 
telling you stories about me,” she declared, watching him 
closely. 

Tavernake drew a little away from her but seated him- 
seK on the sofa which she had indicated. He took up as 
much room as possible, and to his relief she did not per- 
sist in her first intention, which was obviously to seat 
herself beside him. 

“Your sister has told me nothing about you whatso- 
ever,” he said deliberately. “At the same time, she asked 
me not to give you her address.” 

“We will talk about that presently,” she interrupted. 
“In the first place, tell me why you have left your place. ” 

“Mr. Dowling discovered,” he told her, in a matter-of- 
fact tone, “that I had been doing some business on my 
own account. He was quite right to disapprove. I have 
not been back to the office since he found it out.” 

“What sort of business?” she asked. 

“The business of the firm is to buy property in unde- 
veloped districts and sell it for building estate,” he ex- 
plained. “I have been very successful hitherto in finding 
sites for their operations. A short time ago, I discovered 
one so good that I invested all my own savings in buying 


124 the tempting of tavernake 

certain lots, and have an option upon the whole. Mr. 
Dowling found it out and dismissed me.” 

“But it seems most unfair,” she declared. 

“Not at all,” he answered. “In Mr. Dowling’s place I 
should have done the same thing. Every one with his way 
in life to make must look out for himself. Strictly speak- 
ing, what I did was wrong. I wish, however, that I had 
done it before. One must think of one’s self first.” 

“And now?” she inquired. “What are you going to 
do now?” 

“I am going to find a capitalist or float a company to 
buy the rest of the site,” he announced. “After that, we 
must see about building. There is no hurry about that, 
though. The first thing is to secure the site.” 

“How much money does it require?” 

“About twelve thousand pounds,” he told her. 

“It seems very little,” she murmured. 

“The need for money comes afterwards,” he explained. 
“We want to drain and plan and build without mort- 
gages. As soon as we are sure of the site, one can think 
of that. My option only extends for a week or so.” 

“Do you really think that it is a good speculation?” 
she asked. 

“I do not think about such matters,” he answered, 
drily. “I know.” 

She leaned back in her chair, watching him for several 
seconds — admiring him, as a matter of fact. The pro- 
found conviction of his words was almost inspiring. In 
her presence, and she knew that she was a very beautiful 
woman, he appeared, notwithstanding his absence of any 
knowledge of her sex and his lack of social status, unmoved, 
wholly undisturbed. He sat there in perfect naturalness. 
It did not seem to him even unaccountable that she should 


A BEWILDERING OFFER 125 

be interested in his concerns. He was not conceited or 
aggressive in any way. His complete self-confidence 
lacked any militant impulse.. He was — himself, im- 
pervious to surroundings, however unusual. 

“Why should I not be your capitalist.?” she inquired 
slowly. 

“Have you as much as twelve thousand pounds that 
you want to invest?” he asked, incredulously. 

She rose to her feet and moved across to her desk. He 
sat quite still, watching her without any apparent curi- 
osity. She unlocked a drawer and returned to him with 
a bankbook in her hand. 

“Add that up,” she directed, “and tell me how much 
I have.” 

He drew a lead pencil from his pocket and quickly 
added up the total. 

“ If you have not given any cheques since this was made 
up,” he said calmly, “you have a credit balance of thir- 
teen thousand, one hundred and eighteen pounds, nine 
shillings and fourpence. It is very foolish of you to keep 
so much money on current account. You are absolutely 
losing about eight pounds a week.” 

She smiled. 

“It is foolish of me, I suppose,” she admitted, “but 
I have no one to advise me just now. My father knows 
no more about money than a child, and I have just had 
quite a large amount paid to me in cash. I only wish we 
could get Beatrice to share some of this, Mr. Tavernake.” 

He made no remark. To all appearance, he had never 
heard of her sister. She came and sat down by his side 
again. 

“Will you have me for a partner, Mr. Tavernake?” 
she whispered. 


126 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Then, indeed, for a moment, the impassivity of his 
features relaxed. He was frankly amazed. 

“You cannot mean this,” he declared. “You know 
nothing about the value of the property, nothing about 
the affair at all. It is quite impossible.” 

“I know what you have told me,” she said. “Is not 
that enough? You are sure that it will make money and 
you have just told me how foolish I am to keep so much 
money in my bank. Very well, then, I give it to you to 
invest. You must pay me quite a good deal of interest.” 

“But you know nothing about me,” he protested, 
“nothing about the property.” 

“One must trust somebody,” she replied. “Why 
should n’t I trust you?” 

He was nonplussed. This woman seemed to have an 
answer for everything. Besides, when once he had got 
over the unexpectedness of the thing, it was, of course, 
a wonderful stroke of fortune for him. Then came a 
whole rush of thoughts, a glow which he thrust back 
sternly. It would mean seeing her often; it would mean 
coming here to her rooms; it would mean, perhaps, that 
she might come to look upon him as a friend. He set 
his teeth hard. This was folly! 

“Have you any idea about terms?” he inquired. 

She laughed softly. 

“My dear friend,” she said, “why do you ask me such 
a question? You know quite well that I am not compe- 
tent to discuss terms with you. Listen. You are engaged 
in a speculation to carry out which you want the loan 
of twelve thousand pounds. Draw up a paper in which 
you state what my share will be of the profits, what inter- 
est I shall get for my money, and give particulars of the 
property. Then I will take it to my solicitor, if you in- 


A BEWILDERING OFFER 


127 

sist upon it, although I am willing to accept what you 
think is fair.’* 

“You must take it to a solicitor, of course,” he answered, 
thoughtfully. “I may as well tell you at once, however, 
that he will probably advise you against investing it in 
such a way.” 

“That will make no difference at all,” she declared. 
“Solicitors hate all investments, I know, except their 
horrid mortgages. There are only two conditions that 
I shall make.” 

“What are they?” he asked. 

“The first is that you must not say a word of this to 
my sister.” 

Tavernake frowned. 

“That is a little difficult,” he remarked. “It happens 
that your sister knows something about the estate and 
my plans.” 

“There is no need to tell her the name of your partner,” 
Elizabeth said. “I want this to be our secret entirely, 
yours and mine.” 

Her hand fell upon his; he gripped the sides of his 
chair. Again he was conscious of this bewildering, in- 
comprehensible sensation. 

“And the other condition?” he demanded, hoarsely. 

“That you come sometimes and tell me how things are 
going on.” 

“Come here? ” he repeated. 

She nodded. 

“Please! I am very lonely. I shall look forward to 
your visits.” 

Tavernake rose slowly to his feet. He held out his 
hand — she knew better than to attempt to keep him. 
He made a speech which was for him gallant, but while 


128 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


he made it he looked into her eyes with a directness to 
which she was indeed unaccustomed. 

“I shall come,” he said. “I should have wanted to 
come, anyhow.” 

Then he turned abruptly away and left the room. It 
was the first speech of its sort which he had ever made 
in his life. 


CHAPTER XII 


TAVERNAKE BLUNDERS 

Tavernake felt that he had indeed wandered into an 
alien world as he took his place the following evening 
among the little crowd of people who were waiting out- 
side the stage-door of the Atlas Theatre. These were 
surroundings to which he was totally unaccustomed. Two 
very handsome motor-cars were drawn up against the 
curb, and behind them a string of electric broughams 
and taxicabs, proving conclusively that the young ladies 
of the Atlas Theatre were popular in other than purely 
theatrical circles. 

The handful of young men by whom Tavernake was 
surrounded were of a genus unknown to him. They were 
all dressed exactly alike, they all seemed to breathe the 
same atmosphere, to exhibit the same indifference towards 
the other loungers. One or two more privileged passed 
in through the stage-door and disappeared. Tavernake 
contented himself with standing on the edge of the curb- 
stone, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dark over- 
coat, his bowler hat, which was not quite the correct 
shape, slightly on the back of his head; his serious, stolid 
face illuminated by the gleam from a neighboring gas 
lamp. 

Presently, people began to emerge from the door. First 
of all, the musicians and a little stream of stage hands. 


130 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

S 

Then a girl’s hat appeared in the doorway, and the first 
of the Atlas young ladies came out, to be claimed at once 
by her escort. Very soon afterwards, Beatrice arrived. 
She recognized Tavernake at once and crossed over to 
him. 

“Well?” she asked. 

“You looked very nice,” he said, slowly, as he led the 
way down the street. “Of course, I knew about your 
singing, but everything else — seemed such a surprise.” 

“For instance?” 

“Why, I mean your dancing,” he went on, “and S9me- 
how or other you looked different on the stage.” 

She shook her head. 

“‘Different’ won’t do for me,” she persisted. “I must 
have something more specific.” 

“Well, then, you looked much prettier than I thought 
you were,” Tavernake declared, solemnly. “You looked 
exceedingly nice.” 

“You really thought so?” she asked, a little doubt- 
fully. 

“I really thought so. I thought you looked much 
nicer than any of the others.” 

She squeezed his arm affectionately. 

“Dear Leonard,” she said, “it’s so nice to have you 
think so. Do you know, Mr. Grier actually asked me 
out to supper.” 

“What impertinence!” Tavernake muttered. 

Beatrice threw her head back and laughed. 

“My dear brother,” she protested, “it was a tremendous 
compliment. You must remember that it was entirely 
through him, too, that I got the engagement. Four 
pounds a week I am going to have. Just think of it!” 

“Four pounds a week is all very well,” Tavernake ad- 


TAVERNAKE BLUNDERS 


131 

mitted. “It seems a great deal of money to earn like 
that. But I don’t think you ought to go out to supper 
with any one whom you know so slightly.” 

“Dear prig! You know, you are a shocking prig, 
Leonard.” 

“Am I?” he answered, without offence, and with the 
air of one seriously considering the subject. 

“Of course you are. How could you help it, living 
the sort of life you’ve led all your days? Never mind, 
I like you for it. I don’t know whether I want to go out 
to supper with anybody — I really have n’t decided 
yet — but if I did, it would certainly be better for me 
to go with Mr. Grier, because he can do me no end of 
good at the theatre, if he likes.” 

Tavernake was silent for several moments. He was 
conscious of feeling something which he did not altogether 
understand. He only knew that it involved a strong 
and unreasonable dislike to Mr. Grier. Then he remem- 
bered that he was her brother, that he had the right to 
speak with authority. 

“I hope that you will not go out to supper with any 
one,” he said. 

She began to laugh but checked herself. 

“Well,” she remarked, “that sounds very terrible. 
Shall we take a ’bus? To tell you the truth, I am dying 
of hunger. We rehearsed for two hours before the per- 
formance, and I ate nothing but a sandwich — I was so 
excited.” 

Tavernake hesitated a moment — he certainly was 
not himself this evening! 

“Would you like to have some supper at a restaurant,” 
he asked, “before we go home?” 

“I should love it,” she declared, taking his arm as they 


132 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

passed through a stream of people. “To tell you the 
truth, I was so hoping that you would propose it.” 

“I think,” Tavernake said, deliberately, “that there 
is a place a little way along here.” 

They pushed their way down the Strand and entered 
a restaurant which Tavernake knew only by name. A 
small table was found for them and Beatrice looked 
about with delight. 

“Is n’t this jolly!” she exclaimed, taking off her gloves. 
“Why, there are five or six of the girls from the theatre 
here already. There are two, see, at the corner table, 
and the fair-haired girl — she is just behind me in the 
chorus.” 

Tavernake glanced around. The young women whom 
she pointed out were all escorted by men who were scrupu- 
lously attired in evening dress. She seemed to read his 
thoughts as she laughed at him. 

“You stupid boy,” she said. “You don’t suppose that 
I want to be like them, do you? There are lots of things 
it ’s delightful to look on at, and that ’s all. Is n’t this 
fish good? I love this place.” 

Tavernake looked around him with an interest which 
he took no pains to conceal. Certainly the little groups 
of people by whom they were surrounded on every side 
had the air of finding some zest in life which up to the 
present, at any rate, had escaped him. They came stream- 
ing in, finding friends everywhere, laughing and talking, 
insisting upon tables in impossible places, calling out 
greetings to acquaintances across the room, chaffing the 
maitre d^hotel who was hastening from table to table. 
The gathering babel of voices was mingled every now 
and then with the popping of corks, and behind it all 
were the soft strains of a very seductive little band. 


TAVERNAKE BLUNDERS 133 

perched up in the balcony. Tavernake felt the color 
mounting into his cheeks. It was true: there was some- 
thing here which was new to him! 

“Beatrice,” he asked her suddenly, “have you ever 
drunk champagne?” 

She laughed at him. 

“Often, my dear brother,” she answered. “Why?” 

“I never have,” he confessed. “We are going to have 
some now.” 

She would have checked him but he had summoned 
a waiter imperiously and given his order. 

“My dear Leonard,” she protested, “this is shocking 
extravagance.” 

“Is it?” he replied. “I don’t care. Tell me about 
the theatre. Were they kind to you there? Will you 
be able to keep your place?” 

“The girls were all much nicer than I expected,” she 
told him, “and the musical director said that my voice 
was much too good for the chorus. Oh, I do hope that 
they will keep me!” 

“They would be idiots if they did n’t,” he declared, 
vigorously. “You sing better and you dance more grace- 
fully and to me you seemed much prettier than any one 
else there.” 

She laughed into his eyes. 

“My dear brother,” she exclaimed, “your education 
is progressing indeed! It is positively the first evening 
I have ever heard you attempt to make pretty speeches, 
and you are quite an adept already.” 

“I don’t know about that,” he protested. “I suppose 
it never occurred to me before that you were good-looking,” 
he added, examining her critically, “or I dare say I should 
have told you so. You see, one does n’t notice these 


134 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

things in an ordinary way. Lots of other people must 
have told you so, though.” 

“I was never spoilt with compliments,” she said. “You 
see, I had a beautiful sister.” 

The words seemed to have escaped her unconsciously. 
Almost as they passed her lips, her expression changed. 
She shivered, as though reminded of something un- 
pleasant. Tavernake, however, noticed nothing. For 
the greater part of the day he had been sedulously fight- 
ing against a new and unaccustomed state of mind. He 
had found his thoughts slipping away, time after time, 
until he had had to set his teeth and use all his will power 
to keep his attention concentrated upon his work. And 
now once more they had escaped, again he felt the strange 
stir in his blood. The slight flush on his cheek grew 
suddenly deeper. He looked past the girl opposite to 
him, out of the restaurant, across the street, into that 
little sitting-room in the Milan Court. It was Elizabeth 
who was there in front of him. Again he heard her voice, 
saw the turn of her head, the slow, delightful curve of the 
lips, the eyes that looked into his and spoke to him the 
first strange whispers of a new language. His heart gave 
a quick throb. He was for the moment transformed, a 
prisoner no longer, a different person, indeed, from the 
stolid, well-behaved young man who found himself for 
the first time in his life in these unaccustomed surround- 
ings. Then Beatrice leaned towards him, her voice 
brought him back to the present — not, alas, the voice 
which at that moment he would have given so much to 
have heard. 

“To-night,” she murmured, “I feel as though we were 
at the beginning of new things. We must drink a toast.” 

Tavernake filled her glass and his own. 


TAVERNAKE BLUNDERS 


135 


“Luck to you in your new profession!” he said. 

“And here is one after your own heart, you most curious 
of men!” she exclaimed, a few seconds later. “To the 
undiscovered in life ! ” 

He drained his glass and set it down empty. 

“The undiscovered,” he muttered, looking around. 
“It is a very good toast, Beatrice. There are many 
things of which one might remain ignorant all one’s life 
if one relied wholly upon one’s own perceptions.” 

“I believe,” she agreed, “that if I had not appeared 
you were in great danger of becoming narrow.” 

“I am sure of it,” he answered, “but you see you came.” 

She was thoughtful for a moment. 

“This reminds me just a little of that first dreary feast 
of ours,” she said. “You knew what it was like then to 
feed a genuinely starving girl. And I was miserable, 
Leonard. It did n’t seem to me that there was any other 
end save one.” 

“You ’ve got over all that nonsense?” he asked 
anxiously. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered. “You see, I ’ve 
started life again and one gets stronger. But there are 
times even now,” she added, “when I am afraid.” 

The mirth had suddenly died from her face. She looked 
older, tired, and careworn. The shadows were back under 
her eyes; she glanced around almost timorously. He 
filled her glass. 

“That is foolishness,” he said. “Nothing nor anybody 
can harm you now.” 

Some note in his voice attracted her attention. Strong 
and square, with hard, forceful face, he sat wholly at his 
ease among these unfamiliar surroundings, a very tower 
of refuge, she felt, to the weak. His facq was not strik- 


136 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

ingly intellectual — she was not sure now about his 
mouth — but one seemed to feel that dogged nature, the 
tireless pains by which he would pursue any aim dear to 
him. The shadows passed away from her mind. What 
was dead was gone! It was not reasonable that she 
should be haunted all her days by the ghosts of other 
people’s sins. The atmosphere of the place, the atmos- 
phere of the last few hours, found its way again into her 
blood. After all, she was young, the music was sweet, 
her pulses were throbbing to the tune of this new life. 
She drank her wine and laughed, her head beating time to 
the music. 

“We have been sad long enough,” she declared. “You 
and I, my dear serious brother, will embark in earnest 
now upon the paths of frivolity. Tell me, how did things 
go to-day?” 

It flashed into his mind that he had great news, but 
that it was not for her. About that matter there was still 
doubt in his mind, but he could not speak of it. 

“I have had an offer,” he said guardedly. “I can- 
not say much about it at present, for nothing is certain, 
but I am sure that I shall be able to raise the money 
somehow.” 

His tone was calm and confident. There was no self- 
assurance or bluster about it, and yet it was convincing. 
She looked at him curiously. 

“You are a very positive person, Leonard,” she re- 
marked. “You must have great faith in yourself, I 
think.” 

He considered the question for a moment. 

“Perhaps I have,” he admitted. “I do not think that 
there is any other way to succeed.” 

The atmosphere of the place was becoming now almost 


TAVERNAKE BLUNDERS 137 

languorous. The band had ceased to play; little parties 
of men and women were standing about, bidding one 
another good-night. The lamps had been lowered, and 
in the gloom the voices and laughter seemed to have be- 
come lower and more insinuating; the lights in the eyes 
of the women, as they passed down the room on their 
way out, softer and more irresistible. 

“I suppose we must go,” she said reluctantly. 

Tavernake paid his bill and they turned into the street. 
She took his arm and they turned westward. Even out 
here, the atmosphere of the restaurant appeared to have 
found its way. The soberness of life, its harder and more 
practical side, was for the moment obscured. It was not 
the daytime crowd, this, whose footsteps pressed the 
pavements. The careworn faces of the money-seekers 
had vanished. The men and women to whom life was 
something of a struggle had sought their homes — rest- 
ing, perhaps, before they took up their labors again. Every 
moment taxicabs and motor-cars whirled by, flashing upon 
the night a momentary impression of men in evening 
dress, of women in soft garments with jewels in their hair. 
The spirit of pleasure seemed to have crept into the at- 
mosphere. Even the poorer people whom they passed in 
the street, were laughing or singing. 

Tavernake stopped short. 

“To-night,” he declared, “is not the night for omni- 
buses. We are going to have a taxicab. I know that you 
are tired.” 

“I should love it,” she admitted. 

They hailed one and drove off. Beatrice leaned back 
among the cushions and closed her eyes, her ungloved 
hand rested almost caressingly upon his. He leaned for- 
ward. There were new things in the world — he was sure 


138 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

of it now, sure though they were coming to him through 
the mists, coming to him so vaguely that even while he 
obeyed he did not understand. Her full, soft lips were 
slightly parted; her heavily-fringed eyelids closed; her 
deep brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, 
drooping over her ear. His fingers suddenly clasped hers 
tightly. 

“Beatrice!” he whispered. 

She sat up with a start, her eyes questioning his, the 
breath coming quickly through her parted lips. 

“Once you asked me to kiss you, Beatrice,” he said. 
“To-night — I am going to.” 

She made no attempt to repulse him. He took her in 
his arms and kissed her. Even in that moment he knew 
that he had made a mistake. Nevertheless, he kissed her 
again and again, crushing her lips against his. 

“Please let me go, Leonard,” she begged at last. 

He obeyed at once. He understood quite well that 
some strange thing had happened. It seemed to him 
during those next few minutes that everything which had 
passed that night was a dream, that this vivid picture 
of a life more intense, making larger demands upon the 
senses than anything he had yet experienced, was a mirage, 
a thing which would live only in his memory, a life in which 
he could never take any part. He had blundered; he had 
come into a new world and he had blundered. A sense of 
guilt was upon him. He had a sudden wild desire to cry 
out that it was Elizabeth whom he had kissed. Beatrice 
was sitting upright in her place, her head turned a little 
away from him. He felt that she was expecting him to 
speak — that there were inevitable words which he should 
say. His silence was a confession. He would have lied 
but the seal was upon his lips. So the moment passed, 


TAVERNAKE BLUNDERS 


139 

and Tavernake had taken another step forward towards 
his destiny! . . . 

As he helped her out of the cab, her fingers tightened 
for a moment upon his hand. She patted it gently as she 
passed out before him into the house, leaving the door 
open. When he had paid the cabman and followed, she 
had disappeared. He looked into the sitting-room; it 
was empty. Overhead, he could hear her footsteps as she 
ascended to her room. 


CHAPTER XIII 


AN EVENING CALL 

In the morning, when he left for the city, she was not 
down. When he came home in the evening, she was 
gone. Without removing his hat or overcoat, he took the 
letter which he found propped up on the mantelpiece and 
addressed to him to the window and read it. 

Dear Brother Leonard, — It was n’t your fault and I don’t 
think it was mine. If either of us is to blame, it is certainly I, 
for though you are such a clever and ambitious young person, 
you really know very little indeed of the world, — not so much, 
I think, as I do. I am going to stay for a few nights, at any 
rate, with one of the girls at the theatre, who I know wants some 
one to share her tiny flat with her. Afterwards, I shall see. 

Don’t throw this letter in the fire and don’t think me ungrate- 
ful. I shall never forget what you did for me. How could I? 

I will send you my address as soon as I am sure of it, or you 
can always write me to the theatre. 

Good-bye, dear Leonard, 

Your Sister Beatrice. 

Tavernake looked from the sheet of notepaper out 
across the gray square. He knew that he was very angry, 
angry though he deliberately folded the letter up and 
placed it in his pocket, angry though he took off his over- 
coat and hung it up with his usual care; but his anger was 
with himself. He had blundered badly. This episode of 


AN EVENING CALL 141 

his life was one which he had better forget. It was abso- 
lutely out of harmony with all his ideas. He told himself 
that he was glad Beatrice was gone. Housekeeping with 
an imaginary sister in this practical world was an ab- 
surdity. Sooner or later it must have come to an end. 
Better now, before it had gone too far — better now, 
much better! All the same, he knew that he was going 
to be very lonely. 

He rang the bell for the woman who waited upon them, 
and whom he seldom saw, for Beatrice herself had sup- 
plied their immediate wants. He found some dinner 
ready, which he ate with absolute unconsciousness. Then 
he threw himself fiercely into his work. It was all very 
well for the first hour or so, but as ten o’clock grew near 
he began to find a curious difficulty in keeping his atten- 
tion fixed upon those calculations. The matter of aver- 
age rentals, percentage upon capital — things which but 
yesterday he had found fascinating — seemed suddenly 
irksome. He could fix his attention upon nothing. At 
last he pushed his papers away, put on his hat and coat, 
and walked into the street. 

At the Milan Court, the hall-porter received his inquiry 
for Elizabeth with an air of faint but well-bred surprise. 
Tavernake, in those days, was a person exceedingly diffi- 
cult to place. His clothes so obviously denoted the station 
in life which he really occupied, while the slight imperious- 
ness of his manner, his absolute freedom from any sort of 
nervousness or awkwardness, seemed to bespeak a con- 
sideration which those who had to deal with him as a 
stranger found sometimes a little puzzling. 

“Mrs. Wenham Gardner is in her rooms, I believe, sir,” 
the man said. “If you will wait for a moment, I will 
inquire.” 


142 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

He disappeared into his office, thrusting his head out, a 
moment or two later, with the telephone receiver still in 
his hand. 

“Mrs. Gardner would like the name again, sir, please,” 
he remarked. 

Tavernake repeated it firmly. 

“ You might say,” he added, “ that I shall not detain 
her for more than a few minutes.” 

The man disappeared once more. When he returned, 
he indicated the lift to Tavernake. 

“ If you will go up to the fifth floor, sir,” he said, “ Mrs. 
Gardner will see you.” 

Tavernake found his courage almost leaving him as he 
knocked at the door of her rooms. Her French maid 
ushered him into the little sitting-room, where, to his dis- 
may, he found three men, one sitting on the table, the 
other two in easy-chairs. Elizabeth, in a dress of pale blue 
satin, was standing before the mirror. She turned round 
as Tavernake entered. 

“ Mr. Tavernake shall decide! ” she exclaimed, waving 
her hand to him. “ Mr. Tavernake, there is a difference 
of opinion about my earrings. Major Post here,” — she 
indicated a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman, with 
carefully trimmed beard and moustache, and an eyeglass 
attached to a thin band of black ribbon — “ Major Post 
wants me to wear turquoises. I prefer my pearls. Mr. 
Crease half agrees with me, but as he never agrees with 
any one, on principle, he hates to say so. Mr. Faulkes is 
wavering. You shall decide; you, I know, are one of those 
people who never waver.” 

“ I should wear the pearls,” Tavernake said. 

Elizabeth made them a little courtesy. 

“ You see, my dear friends,” she declared, “ you have to 


AN EVENING CALL 


143 

come to England, after all, to find a man who knows his 
own mind and speaks it without fear. The pearls it shall 
be.” 

“It may be decision,” Crease drawled, speaking with a 
slight American accent, “or it may be gallantry. Mr. 
Tavernake knew your own choice.” 

“The last word, as usual,” she sighed. “Now, if you 
good people will kindly go on downstairs, I will join you 
in a few minutes. Mr. Tavernake is my man of business 
and I am sure he has something to say to me.” 

She dismissed them all pleasantly. As soon as the door 
was closed she turned to Tavernake. Her manner seemed 
to become a shade less gracious. 

“Well?” 

“I don’t know why I came,” Tavernake confessed 
bluntly. “I was restless and I wanted to see you.” 

She looked at him for a moment and then she laughed. 
Tavernake felt a sense of relief; at least she was not 
angry. 

“Oh, you strangest of mortals!” she exclaimed, holding 
out her hands. “Well, you see me — in one of my most 
becoming gowns, too. What do you think of the fit?” 

She swept round and faced him again with an expect- 
ant look. Tavernake, who knew nothing of women’s 
fashions, still realized the superbness of that one un- 
broken line. 

“I can’t think how you can move a step in it,” he said, 
“but you look — ” 

He paused. It was as though he had lost his breath. 
Then he set his teeth and finished. 

“You look beautiful,” he declared. “I suppose you 
know that. I suppose they ’ve all been telling you so.” 

She shook her head. 


144 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


“They have n’t all your courage, dear Briton,” she re- 
marked, “ and if they did tell me so, I am not sure that I 
should be convinced. You see, most of my friends have 
lived so long and lived so quickly that they have learned 
to play with words until one never knows whether the 
things they speak come from their hearts. With you it is 
different.” 

“Yes,” Tavernake admitted, “with me it is different!” 

She glanced at the clock. 

“Well,” she said, “you have seen me and I am glad to 
have seen you, and you may kiss my fingers if you like, 
and then you must run away. I am engaged to have sup- 
per with my friends downstairs.” 

He raised her fingers clumsily enough to his lips and 
kept them there for a moment. When he let them go, she 
wrung them as though in pain, and looked at him. She 
turned abruptly away. In a sense she was disappointed. 
After all, he was an easy victim ! 

“Elise,” she called out, “my cloak.” 

Her maid came hurrying from the next room. Eliza- 
beth turned towards her, holding out her shoulders. She 
nodded to Tavernake. 

“You know the way down, Mr. Tavernake? I shall see 
you again soon, sha’n’t I? Good-night!” 

She scarcely glanced at him as she sent him away, yet 
Tavernake walked on air. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A WARNING FROM MR. PRITCHARD 

Tavernake hesitated for a moment under the portico of 
the Milan Court, looking out at the rain which had sud- 
denly commenced to descend. He scarcely noticed that 
he had a companion until the man who was standing by 
his side addressed him. 

“Say, your name is Tavernake, is n’t it?” 

Tavernake, who had been on the point of striding away, 
turned sharply around. The man who had spoken to him 
was wearing morning clothes of dark gray tweed and a 
soft Homburg hat. His complexion was a little sallow 
and he was clean-shaven except for a slight black mous- 
tache. He was smoking a black cigar and his accent was 
transatlantic. Something about his appearance struck 
Tavernake as being vaguely familiar, but he could not at 
first recall where he had seen him before. 

“That is my name, certainly,” Tavernake admitted. 

“I am going to ask you a somewhat impertinent ques- 
tion,” his neighbor remarked. 

“I suppose you can ask it,” Tavernake rejoined. “I 
am not obliged to answer, am I?” 

The man smiled. 

“Come,” he said, “that ’s honest, at any rate. Are you 
in a hurry for a few minutes?” 

“I am in no particular hurry,” Tavernake answered. 
“What do you want?” 

“A few nights ago,” the stranger continued, lowering 


’i 46 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

his voice a little, “ I met you with a young lady whose 
appearance, for some reason which we need n’t go into, 
interested me. To-night I happened to overhear you 
inquiring, only a few minutes ago, for the sister of the 
same young lady.” 

“What you heard doesn’t concern me in the least,” 
Tavernake retorted. “I should say that you had no 
business to listen.” 

His companion smiled. 

“Well,” he declared, “I have always heard a good 
deal about British frankness, and it seems to me that I ’m 
getting some. Anyway, I’ll tell you where I come in. 
I am interested in Mrs. Wenham Gardner. I am inter- 
ested, also, in her sister, whom I think you know — Miss 
Beatrice Franklin, not Miss Tavernake!” 

Tavernake made no immediate reply. The man was 
an American, without a doubt. Perhaps he knew some- 
thing of Beatrice. Perhaps this was one of the friends 
of that former life concerning which she had told him 
nothing. 

“You are not, by any chance, proposing,” Tavernake 
said at last, “to discuss either of these ladies with me? 
I do not know you or what your business may be. In 
any case, I am going now.” 

The other laid his hand on Tavernake’s shoulder. 

“You ’ll be soaked to the skin,” he protested. “I want 
you to come into the smoking-room here with me for a 
few minutes. We will have a drink together and a little 
conversation, if you don’t mind.” 

“But I do mind,” Tavernake declared. “I don’t know 
who you are and I don’t want to know you, and I am not 
going to talk about Mrs. Gardner, or any other lady of 
my acquaintance, with strangers. Good-night!” 


A WARNING FROM MR. PRITCHARD 147 

“One moment, please, Mr. Tavernake.’’ 

Tavernake hesitated. There was something curiously 
compelling in the other’s smooth, distinct voice. 

“I ’d like you to take this card,” he said. “I told 
you my name before but I expect you’ve forgotten it, 
— Pritchard — Sam Pritchard. Ever heard of me 
before?” 

“Never!” 

“Not to have heard of me in the United States,” the 
other continued, with a grim smile, “would be a tribute 
to your respectability. Most of the crooks who find 
their way over here know of Sam Pritchard. I am a 
detective and I come from New York.” 

Tavernake turned and looked the man over. There 
was something convincing about his tone and appearance. 
It did not occur to him to doubt for a moment a word of 
this stranger’s story. 

“You haven’t anything against her — against either 
of them?” he asked, quickly. 

“Nothing directly,” the detective answered. “All 
the same, you have been calling upon Mrs. Wenham 
Gardner this evening, and if you are a friend of hers I 
think that you had better come along with me and have 
that talk.” 

“I will come,” Tavernake agreed, “but I come as a 
listener. Remember that I have nothing to tell you. So 
far as you are concerned, I do not know either of those 
ladies.” 

Pritchard smiled. 

“Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll let it go at that. All 
the same, if you don’t mind, we’ll talk. Come this way 
and we’ll get to the smoking-room through the hotel. 
It’s under cover.” 


148 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

They made their way to the doors of the hotel. As 
soon as they had entered, Tavernake spoke again. 

“You understand that you will only be wasting your 
time if you are hoping for any information from me.^” 
he declared. “I have nothing to tell you.” 

The detective nodded. 

“I am taking my chances,” he said. “You look as 
though you had common sense, at any rate. There are 
a few things you ought to hear.” 

On their way to the bar, they had to cross the further 
end of the cafe. Pritchard directed his companion’s 
attention towards a little crowd of people who were just 
taking their seats at a round table. 

“Crooks,” he whispered, “every one of them. New 
Yorkers, for the most part. See your friend, Mr. Taver- 
nake?” 

“Elizabeth! ” Tavernake muttered. 

Pritchard smiled again. 

“Mrs. Wenham Gardner,” he continued, — “well, 
we won’t say anything about her just yet; Major Post, 
very well known in the upper circles as ‘Jimmy’; Walter 
Crease, the man with his hair parted down the middle 
there, and the pale face. He plays at being a newspaper 
correspondent over here, got a flat on the Adelphi Ter- 
race, but Heaven knows what he really does ! And look — 
there ’s Charlie Faulkes, out of Sing-Sing last month. 
What a nerve!” 

Tavernake looked at the round table in blank amaze- 
ment. His companion’s words meant little to him. The 
three men to whom the detective had alluded were the 
three men whom he had recently met in Ehzabeth’s 
sitting-room. They were all most correctly dressed, and, 
compared with the other guests in their immediate vicin- 


A WARNING FROM MR. PRITCHARD 149 

ity, possessed an air of distinction, although, as usual, 
Elizabeth was the dominating figure. 

“What are you talking about?” Tavemake demanded. 
“You surely don’t mean those people who are with Mrs. 
Gardner?” 

Pritchard led him on out of sight up the stairs and 
into the smoking-room. 

“My young friend,” he said, “I am an old stager at 
this game, and you’re just a trifle green. That class of 
person knows how to wear its clothes. They ’d pass most 
anywhere, that lot would, better than you or I, I dare 
say, for they ’ ve studied all the tricks. All the same, that 
very distinguished-looking gentleman with the gray hair 
came out of Sing-Sing from doing a five years’ sentence, 
only last month.” 

“A five years’ sentence for what?” Tavernake gasped. 

“Robbing a trust company of something over a million 
dollars,” Pritchard answered. “ They never got the money 
back, either.” 

Tavernake was silent. The thing seemed to him im- 
possible. His companion had ordered drinks and fit a 
fresh cigar. 

“You see, Mr. Tavernake,” the latter continued, 
biting the end of his cigar and chewing it thoughtfully 
for a moment, “London and New York are, after all, a 
long way apart. The people who come and go in these 
restaurants are not likely to know anything of the crim- 
inal side of our city. As soon as what we call a tony 
American crook gets out of prison, he comes over here. 
Probably not a soul recognizes him, and there are great 
fields open always. I am not sure,” he continued, “that 
to-day the crook doesn’t do better in London than in 
New York itself.” 


150 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Tavernake moved restlessly in his chair. 

“What the devil is all this talk about crooks!” he 
exclaimed impatiently. “ I didn’t come here to listen 
to this sort of thing. I am not sure that I believe a word 
of what you say.” 

“Why should you,” Pritchard remarked, “without 
proof? Look here.” 

He drew a leather case from his pocket and spread it 
out. There were a dozen photographs there of men in 
prison attire. The detective pointed to one, and with a 
little shiver Tavernake recognized the face of the man 
who had been sitting at the right hand of Elizabeth. 

“You don’t mean to say,” he faltered, “that Mrs. 
Gardner — ” 

The detective folded up his case and replaced it in his 
pocket. 

“No,” he said, “we have n’t any photographs of your 
lady friend there, nor of her sister. And yet, it may not 
be so far off.” 

“If you are trying to fasten anything upon those 
ladies, — ” Tavernake began, threateningly. 

The detective laughed and patted him on the shoulder. 

“It isn’t my business to try and fasten things upon 
any one,” he interrupted. “At the same time, you seem 
to be a friend of Mrs. Wenham Gardner, and it is just as 
well that some one should warn her.” 

“Warn her of what?” Tavernake asked. 

The detective looked at his cigar meditatively. 

“Make her understand that there is trouble ahead,” 
he replied. 

Tavernake sipped his whiskey and soda and lit a cig- 
arette. Then he turned in his chair and looked thought- 
fully at his companion. Pritchard was a striking-looking 


A WARNING FROM MR. PRITCHARD 151 

man, with hard, clean-cut features — a man of deter- 
mination. 

“Mr. Pritchard, I am a clerk in an estate ojffice. My 
people were work-people and I am trying to better myself 
in the world. I have n’t learned how to beat about a 
subject, but I have learned a little of the world, and I 
know that people such as you are not in the habit of 
doing things without a reason. Why the devil have you 
brought me in here to talk about Mrs. Gardner and her 
sister? If you’ve anything to say, why don’t you go to 
Mrs. Gardner herself and say it? Why do you come and 
talk to strangers about their affairs? I am here listening 
to you, but I tell you straight I don’t like it.” 

Pritchard nodded. 

“Say, I am not sure that I don’t like that sort of talk,” 
he declared. “ I know all about you, young man. You’re 
in Dowling & Spence’s office and you’ve got to quit. 
You ’ve got an estate you want financing. Miss Beatrice 
Franklin was living under your roof — as your sister, I 
understand — until yesterday, and Mrs. Gardner, for 
some reason of her own, seems to be doing her best to add 
you to the fist of her admirers. I am not sure what it 
all means but I could make a pretty good guess. Here’s 
my point, though. You’re right. I didn’t bring you 
here for your health. I brought you here because you 
can do me a service and yourself one at the same time, 
and you’ll be doing no one any harm, nobody you care 
about, anyway. I have no grudge against Miss Beatrice. 
I ’d just as soon she kept out of the trouble that’s coming.” 

“What is this service?” Tavernake asked. 

Pritchard for the moment evaded the point. 

“I dare say you can understand, Mr. Tavernake,” 
he said, “that in my profession one has to sometimes go 


152 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

a long way round to get a man or a woman just where 
you want them. Now we merely glanced at that table 
as we came in, and I can tell you this for gospel truth — 
there is n’t one of that crowd that I could n ’t, if I liked, 
haul back to New York on some charge or another. You 
wonder why I don’t do it. I’ll tell you. It’s because I 
am waiting — waiting until I can bring home something 
more serious, something that will keep them out of the 
way for just as long as possible. Do you follow me, Mr. 
Tavernake? ” 

“I suppose I do,” Tavernake answered, doubtfully. 
“You are only talking of the men, of course?” 

Pritchard smiled. 

“My young friend,” he agreed, “I am only talking of 
the men. At the same time, I guess I’m not betraying 
any confidence, or telling you anything that Mrs. Wenham 
Gardner does n’t know herself, when I say that she ’s 
doing her best to qualify for a similar position.” 

“You mean that she is doing something against the 
law!” Tavernake exclaimed, indignantly. “I don’t 
believe it for a moment. If she is associating with 
these people, it’s because she doesn’t know who they 
are.” 

Pritchard flicked the ash from his cigar. 

“Well,” he said, “every man has a right to his own 
opinions, and for my part I like to hear any one stick up 
for his friends. It makes no odds to me. However, 
here are a few facts I am going to bring before you. Four 
months ago, one of the turns at a vaudeville show down 
Broadway consisted of a performance by a Professor 
Franklin and his two daughters, Elizabeth and Beatrice. 
The professor hypnotized, told fortunes, felt heads, and 
the usual rigmarole. Beatrice sang, Elizabeth danced. 


A WARNING FROM MR. PRITCHARD 153 

People came to see the show, not because it was any 
good but because the girls, even in New York, were 
beautiful.” 

“A music-hall in New York!” Tavernake muttered. 

The detective nodded. 

“Among the young bloods of the city,” he continued, 
“were two brothers, as much alike as twins, although they 
are n’t twins, whose names were Wenham and Jerry 
Gardner. There ’s nothing in fast life which those young 
men have n’t tried. Between them, I should say they 
represented everything that was known of debauchery 
and dissipation. The eldest can’t be more than twenty- 
seven to-day, but if you were to see them in the morning, 
either of them, before they had been massaged and gal- 
vanized into life, you’d think they were little old men, 
with just strength enough left to crawl about. Well, to 
cut a long story short, both of them fell in love with 
Elizabeth.” 

“Brutes!” Tavernake interjected. 

“I guess they found Miss Elizabeth a pretty tough nut 
to crack,” the detective went on. “Anyhow, you know 
what her price was from her name, which is hers right 
enough. Wenham, who was a year younger than his 
brother, was the first to bid it. Three months ago, Mr. 
and Mrs. Wenham Gardner, Miss Beatrice, and the 
devoted father left New York in the Lusitania and 
came to London.” 

“Where is this Wenham Gardner, then?” Tavernake 
demanded. 

Pritchard took his cigar case from his pocket and 
selected another cigar. 

“Say, that’s where you strike the nail right on the • 
head,” he remarked. “Where is this Wenham Gardner? 


154 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Tavernake, that to dis- 
cover his whereabouts is exactly what I am over on this 
side for. I have a commission from the family to find 
out, and a blank cheque to do it with.” 

“Do you mean that he has disappeared, then?” asked 
Tavernake. 

“Off the face of the earth, sir,” Pritchard replied. 
“Something like two months ago, the young married 
couple, with Miss Beatrice, started for a holiday tour 
somewhere down in the west of England. A few days 
after they started. Miss Beatrice comes back to London 
alone. She goes to a boarding-house, is practically penni- 
less, but she has shaken her sister — has, I believe, never 
spoken with her since. A little later, Elizabeth alone 
turns up in London. She has plenty of money, more 
money than she has ever had the control of before in her 
fife, but no husband.” 

“So far, I don’t see anything remarkable about that,” 
Tavernake interposed. 

“That may or may not be,” Pritchard answered, drily. 
“This creature, Wenham Gardner — I hate to call him a 
man — was her abject slave — up till the time they 
reached London, at any rate. He would never have quit 
of his own accord. He stopped quite suddenly communi- 
cating with all his friends. None of their cables, even, 
were answered.” 

“Why don’t you go and ask Mrs. Gardner where he 
is?” Tavernake demanded bluntly. 

“I have already,” Pritchard declared, “taken that 
liberty. With tears in her eyes, she assured me that after 
some slight quarrel, in which she admits that she was 
the one to blame, her husband walked out of the house 
where they were staying, and she has not seen him since. 


A WARNING FROM MR. PRITCHARD 155 

She was quite ready with all the particulars, and even 
implored me to help find him.” 

“I cannot imagine,” Tavernake said, “why any one 
should disbelieve her.” 

The detective smiled. 

“There are a few little outside circumstances,” he 
remarked, looking at the ash of his cigar. “In the first 
place, how do you suppose that this young Wenham 
Gardner spent the last week of his stay in New York? ” 

“How should I know?” Tavernake replied, impatiently. 

“By realizing every cent of his property on which he 
could lay his hands,” the detective continued. “It is n’t 
at any time an easy business, and the Gardner interest is 
spread out in many directions, but he must have sailed 
with something like forty thousand pounds in hard cash. 
A suspicious person might presume that that forty 
thousand pounds has found its way to the stronger of the 
combination.” 

“Anything else? ” Tavernake asked. 

“ I won’t worry you much more,” the detective answered. 
“There are a few other circumstances which seem to need 
explanation, but they can wait. There is one serious one, 
however, and that is where you come in.” 

“Indeed!” Tavernake remarked. “I was hoping you 
would come to that soon.” 

“The two sisters, Beatrice and Elizabeth, have been 
together ever since we can learn anything of their history. 
Those people who don’t understand the disappearance of 
Wenham Gardner would like to know why they quarreled 
and parted, why Beatrice is keeping away from her sister 
in this strange manner. I personally, too, should like to 
know from Miss Beatrice when she last saw Wenham 
Gardner alive.” 


156 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“You want me to ask Miss Beatrice these things?” 
Tavernake demanded. 

“It might come better from you,” Pritchard admitted. 
“I have written her to the theatre but naturally she has 
not replied.” 

Tavernake looked curiously at his companion. 

“Do you really suppose,” he asked, “that, even granted 
there were any unusual circumstances in connection with 
that quarrel — do you seriously suppose that Beatrice 
would give her sister away?” 

The detective sighed. 

“No doubt, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “these young 
ladies are friends of yours, and perhaps for that reason 
you are a little prejudiced in their favor. Their whole 
bringing-up and associations, however, have certainly 
not been of a strict order. I cannot help thinking that 
persuasion might be brought to bear upon Miss Beatrice, 
that it might be pointed out to her that a true story is 
the safest.” 

“Well, if you’ve finished,” Tavernake declared, “I’d 
like to tell you what I think of your story. I think it ’s all 

d d silly nonsense! This Wenham Gardner, by your 

own saying, was half mad. There was a quarrel and he’s 
gone off to Paris or somewhere. As to your suggestions 
about Mrs. Gardner, I think they’re infamous.” 

Pritchard was unmoved by his companion’s warmth. 

“Why, that’s all right, Mr. Tavernake,” he affirmed. 
“I can quite understand your feeling like that just at 
first. You see, I’ve been among crime and criminals all 
my days, and I learn to look for a certain set of motives 
when a thing of this sort happens. You’ve been brought 
up among honest folk, who go the straightforward way 
about life, and naturally you look at the same matter 


A WARNING FROM MR. PRITCHARD 157 

from a different point of view. But you and I have got 
to talk this out. I want you to understand that those 
very charming young ladies are not quite the class of 
young women whom you know anything about. Mind 
you, I have n’t a word to say against Miss Beatrice. I 
dare say she ’s as straight as they make ’em. But — you 
must take another whiskey and soda, Mr. Tavemake. 
Now, I insist upon it. Tim, come right over here.” 

Mr. Pritchard seemed to have forgotten what he was 
talking about. The room had been suddenly invaded. 
The whole of the little supper party, whose individual 
members he had pointed out to his companion, came 
trooping into the room. They were all apparently on the 
best of terms with themselves, and they all seemed to 
make a point of absolutely ignoring Pritchard’s presence. 
Elizabeth was the one exception. She was carrying a 
tiny Chinese spaniel under one arm; with the fingers of 
her other hand she held a tortoise-shell mounted monocle 
to her eye, and stared directly at the two men. Presently 
she came languidly across the room to them. 

“Dear me,” she said, “I had no idea that even your 
wide circle of acquaintances, Mr. Pritchard, included my 
friend, Mr. Tavernake.^” 

The two men rose to their feet. Tavernake felt con- 
fused and angry. It was as though he had been playing 
the traitor in listening, even for a moment, to these stories. 

“Mr. Pritchard introduced himself to me only a few 
minutes ago,” he declared. “He brought me in here 
and I have been listening to a lot of rubbish from him 
of which I don’t believe a single word.” 

She flashed a wonderful smile upon him. 

“Mr. Pritchard is so very censorious,” she murmured. 
“He takes such a very low view of human nature. After 


158 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

all, though, I suppose we must not blame him. I think 
that as men and women we do not exist to him. We are 
simply the pegs by means of which he can climb a little 
higher in the esteem of his employers.” 

Pritchard took up his soft hat and stick. 

“Mrs. Gardner,” he said, “I will confess that I have 
been wasting my time with this young man. You are a 
trifle severe upon me. You may find, and before long, 
that I am your best friend.” 

She laughed delightfully. 

“Dear Mr. Pritchard,” she exclaimed, “it is a strange 
thought, that! If only I dared hope that some day it 
might come true!” 

“More unlikely things, madam, are happening every 
hour,” the detective remarked. “The world — our little 
corner of it, at any rate — is full of anomalies. There 
might even come a time to any one of us three when 
liberty was more dangerous than the prison cell itself.” 

He nodded carelessly to Tavernake, and with a bow 
to Elizabeth turned and left the room. Elizabeth re- 
mained as though turned to stone, looking after him as 
he descended the stairs. 

“The man is a fool!” Tavernake cried, roughly. 

Elizabeth shook her head and sighed. 

“He is something far more ineffective,” she said. “He 
is just a little too clever.” 


CHAPTER XV 


GENERAL DISCONTENT 

Elizabeth did not at once rejoin her friends. Instead, 
she sank on to the low settee close to where she had been 
standing, and drew Tavemake down to her side. She 
waved her hand across at the others, who were calling 
for her. 

“In a moment, dear people,” she said. 

Then she leaned back among the cushions and laughed 
at her companion. 

“Tell me, Mr. Tavernake,” she asked, “don’t you feel 
that you have stepped into a sort of modern Arabian 
Nights?” 

“Why?” 

“ Oh, I know Mr. Pritchard’s weakness,” she continued. 
“He loves to throw a glamour around everything he says 
or does. Because he honors me by interesting himself 
in my concerns, he has probably told you all sorts of 
wonderful things about me and my friends. A very 
ingenious romancer, Mr. Pritchard, you know. Confess, 
now, didn’t he tell you some stories about us?” 

She might have spared herself the trouble of beating 
about the bush. There was no hesitation about 
Tavernake. 

“He said that your friends were every one of them 
criminals,” Tavernake declared, “and he admitted that 


i6o THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

he was working hard at the present moment to discover 
that you were one, too.” 

She laughed softly but heartily. 

“I wonder what was his object,” she remarked, “in 
taking you into his confidence. ” 

“He happened to know,” Tavernake explained, “that 
I was intimate with your sister. He wanted me to ask 
Beatrice a certain question.” 

Elizabeth laughed no more. She looked steadfastly 
into his eyes. 

“And that question?” 

“He wanted me to ask Beatrice why she left you and 
hid herself in London.” 

She tried to smile but not very successfully. 

“According to his story,” Tavernake continued, “you 
and Beatrice and your husband were away together 
somewhere in the country. Something happened there, 
something which resulted in the disappearance of your 
husband. Beatrice came back alone and has not been 
near you since. Soon afterwards, you, too, came back 
alone. Mr. Gardner has not been seen or heard of.” 

Elizabeth was bending over her dog, but even Taver- 
nake, unobservant though he was, could see that she was 
shaken. 

“Pritchard is a clever man, generally,” she remarked, 
“diabolically clever. Why has he told you all this, I 
wonder? He must have known that you would probably 
repeat it to me. Why does he want to show me his hand? ” 

“I have no idea,” Tavernake replied. “ These matters 
are all beyond me. They do not concern me in any way. 
I am not keeping you from your friends? Please send 
me away when you like.” 

“Don’t go just yet,” she begged. “Sit with me for a 


GENERAL DISCONTENT i6i 

moment. Can’t you see,” she added, whispering, “that 
I have had a shock? Sit with me. I can’t go back to 
those others just yet.” 

Tavernake did as he was bidden. The woman at his 
side was still caressing the little animal she carried. 
Watching her, however, Tavernake could see that her 
bosom was rising and falling quickly. There was an un- 
natural pallor in her cheeks, a terrified gleam in her eyes. 
Nevertheless, these things passed. In a very few sec- 
onds she was herself again. 

“Come,” she said, “it is not often that I give way. 
The only time I am ever afraid is when there is some- 
thing which I do not understand. I do not understand 
Mr. Pritchard to-night. I know that he is my enemy. 
I cannot imagine why he should talk to you. He must 
have known that you would repeat all he said. It is not 
like him. Tell me, Mr. Tavernake, you have heard all 
sorts of things about me. Do you believe them? Do you 
believe — it’s rather a horrible thing to ask, isn’t it?” 
she went on hurriedly, — “do you believe that I made 
away with my husband?” 

“You surely do not need to ask me that question,” 
Tavernake answered, fervently. “I should believe your 
word, whatever you told me. I should not believe that 
you could do anything wrong.” 

Her hand touched his for a moment and he was repaid. 

“Don’t think too well of me,” she begged. “I don’t 
want to disappoint you.” 

Some one pushed open the swing doors and she started 
nervously. It was only a waiter who passed through 
into the bar. 

“What I think of you,” Tavernake said slowly, “noth- 
ing could alter, but because I am stupid, I suppose, there 


i 62 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

is quite a good deal that I cannot understand. I cannot 
understand, for instance, why they should suspect you 
of having anything to do with your husband’s disappear- 
ance. You can prove where you were when he left 
you?” 

“Quite easily,” she answered, “only, unfortunately, 
no one seems to have seen him go. He timed his departure 
so cunningly that he apparently vanished into thin air. 
Even then,” she continued, “but for one thing I don’t 
suppose that any one would have had suspicions. I dare 
say Mr. Pritchard told you that before we left New York 
my husband sold out some of his property and brought 
it over to Europe with him in cash. We had both deter- 
mined that we would live abroad and have nothing more 
to do with America. It was not I who persuaded him to 
do this. It made no difference to me. If he had run away 
and left me, the courts would have given me money. 
If he had died and I had been a widow, he would have 
left me his property. But simply because there was all 
this money in our hands, and because he disappeared, 
his people and this man Pritchard suspect me.” 

“It is wicked,” he muttered. 

She turned slowly towards him. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she said, “do you know that you 
can help me very much indeed?” 

“I only wish I could,” he replied. “Try me.” 

“Can’t you see,” she went on, “that the great thing 
against me is that Beatrice left me suddenly when we 
were on that wretched expedition, and came back alone? 
She is in London, I know, quite close to me, and still she 
hides. Pritchard asks himself why. Mr. Tavernake, go 
and tell her what people are saying, go and tell her every- 
thing that has happened, let her understand that her 


GENERAL DISCONTENT 163 

keeping away is doing me a terrible injury, beg her to 
come and let people see that we are reconciled, and warn 
her, too, against Pritchard. Will you do this for me?” 

“Of course I will,” Tavernake answered. “I will see 
her to-morrow.” 

Elizabeth drew a little sigh of relief. 

“And you’ll let me know what she says?” she asked, 
rising. 

“I shall be only too glad to,” Tavernake assured her. 

“ Good-night ! ” 

She looked up into his face with a smile which had 
turned the heads of hardened stagers in New York. No 
wonder that Tavernake felt his heart beat against his 
ribs! He took her hands and held them for a moment. 
Then he turned abruptly away. 

“Good-night!” he said. 

He disappeared through the swing doors. She strolled 
across the room to where her friends were sitting in a 
circle, laughing and talking. Her father, who had just 
come in and joined them, gripped her by the arm as she 
sat down. 

“What does it mean?” he demanded, with shaking 
voice. “Did you see that he was there with Pritchard — 
your young man — that wretched estate agent’s clerk? 
I tell you that Pritchard was pumping him for all he 
was worth.” 

“My dear father,” she whispered, coldly, “don’t be 
melodramatic. You give yourself away the whole time. 
Go to bed if you can’t behave like a man.” 

The lights had been turned low, there was no one else 
in the room. The little old gentleman with the eyeglass 
leaned forward. 

“Have you any notion, my dear Elizabeth,” he asked, 


i 64 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“why our friend Pritchard is so much in evidence just at 
present?” 

“Not on account of you, Jimmy,” she answered, “nor 
of any one else here, in fact. The truth is he has con- 
ceived a violent admiration for me — an admiration so 
pronounced, indeed, that he hates to let me out of his 
sight.” 

They all laughed uproariously. Then Walter Crease, 
the journalist, leaned forward, — a man with a long, 
narrow face, yellow-stained fingers, and hollow cheek- 
bones. He glanced around the room before he spoke, 
and his voice sounded like a hoarse whisper. 

“See here,” he said, “seems to me Pritchard is getting 
mighty awkward. He has n’t got his posse around him 
in this country, anyway.” 

There was a dead silence for several seconds. Then the 
little old gentleman nodded solemnly. 

“I am a trifle tired of Pritchard myself,” he admitted, 
“and he certainly knows too much. He carries too much 
in his head to go around safely.” 

The eyes of Elizabeth were bright. 

“He treats us like children,” she declared. “To-night 
he has told the whole of my affairs to a perfect stranger. 
It is intolerable!” 

The little party broke up soon after. Only Walter 
Crease and the man called Jimmy Post were left talking, 
and they retired into the window-seat, whispering together. 

Tavernake, with his hands thrust deep in his overcoat 
pockets, left the hotel and strode along the Strand. Some 
fancy seized him before he had gone many paces, and 
turning abruptly to the left he descended to the Embank- 
ment. He made his way to the very seat upon which he 


GENERAL DISCONTENT 165 

had sat once before with Beatrice. With folded arms he 
leaned back in the corner, looking out across the river, 
at the curving line of lights, at the black, turgid waters, 
the slowly-moving hulk of a barge on its way down the 
stream. It was a new thing, this, for him to have to accuse 
himself of folly, of weakness. For the last few days he 
had moved in a mist of uncertainty, setting his heel upon 
all reflection, avoiding every issue. To-night he could 
escape those accusing thoughts no longer; to-night he 
was more than ever bitter with himseK. What folly was 
this which had sprung up in his life — folly colossal, 
unimaginable, as unexpected as though it had fallen a 
thunderbolt from the skies! What had happened to 
change him so completely! 

His thought traveled back to the boarding-house. It 
was there that the thing had begun. Before that night 
upon the roof, the fingerposts which he had set up with 
such care and deliberation along the road which led 
towards his coveted goal, had seemed to him to point 
with unfaltering directness towards everything in life 
worthy of consideration. To-night they were only dreary 
phantasms, marking time across a miserable plain. Per- 
haps, after all, there had been something in his nature, 
some rebel thing, intolerable yet to be reckoned with, 
which had been first born of that fateful curiosity of his. 
It had leapt up so suddenly, sprung with such scanty 
notice into strenuous and insistent life. Yet what place 
had it there? He must fight against it, root it out with 
both hands. What was this world of intrigue, this crimi- 
nal, undesirable world, to him? His common sense forbade 
him altogether to dissociate Elizabeth from her friends, 
from her surroundings. She was the secret of the pain 
which was tearing at his heartstrings, of all the excite- 


i66 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

ment, the joy, the passion which had swept like a full 
flood across the level way of his life, which had set him 
drifting among the unknown seas. Yet it was Beatrice 
who had brought this upon him. If she had never left, 
if he had not tasted the horrors of this new loneliness, 
he might have been able to struggle on. He missed her, 
missed her diabolically. The other things, marvelous 
though they were, had been more or less like a mirage. 
This world of new emotions had spread like a silken mesh 
over all his thoughts, over all his desires. Beatrice had 
been a tangible person, restful, delightful, a real com- 
panion, his one resource against this madness. And now 
she was gone, and he was powerless to get her back. He 
turned his head, he looked up the road along which he 
had torn that night with his arms around her. She owed 
him her life and she had gone! With all a man’s incon- 
sequence, it seemed to him as he rose heavily to his feet 
and started homeward, that she had repaid him with a 
certain amount of ingratitude, that she had left him at 
the one moment in his life when he needed her most. 


CHAPTER XVI 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE 

The next afternoon, at half-past four, Tavernake was 
having tea with Beatrice in the tiny flat which she was 
sharing with another girl, off Kingsway. She opened the 
door to him herself, and though she chattered ceaselessly, 
it seemed to him that she was by no means at her ease. 
She installed him in the only available chair, an absurd 
little wicker thing many sizes too small for him, and seated 
herself upon the hearth-rug a few feet away. 

“You have soon managed to find me out, Leonard,” 
she remarked. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I had to go to the stage door- 
keeper for your address.” 

“He hadn’t the slightest right to give it you,” she 
declared. 

Tavernake shrugged his shoulders. 

“I had to have it,” he said simply. 

“The power of the purse again!” she laughed. “Now 
that you are here, I don’t believe that you are a bit glad 
to see me. Are you?” 

He did not answer for a moment. He was thinking of 
that vigil upon the Embankment, of the long walk home, 
of the battle with himself, the continual striving to tear 
from his heart this new thing, for which, with a curious 


i68 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

and most masculine inconsistency, he persisted in holding 
her responsible. 

“You know, Leonard,” she continued, getting up ab- 
ruptly and beginning to make the tea, “I believe that you 
are angry with me. If you are, all I can say is that you 
are a very foolish person. I had to come dway. Can’t 
you see that? ” 

“I cannot,” he answered stolidly. 

She sighed. 

“You are not a reasonable person,” she declared. “I 
suppose it is because you have led such a queer life, and 
had no womenfolk to look after you. You don’t under- 
stand. It was absurd, in a way, that I should ever have 
called myseK your sister, that we should even have at- 
tempted such a ridiculous experiment. But after — after 
the other night — ” 

“Can’t we forget that?” he interrupted. 

She raised her eyes and looked at him. 

“Can you?” she asked. 

There was a curious, almost a pleading earnestness in 
her tone. Her eyes had something new to say, something 
which, though it failed to stir his blood, made him vaguely 
uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he answered her without 
hesitation. 

“Yes,” he replied, “I could forget it. I will promise to 
forget it.” 

It was unaccountable, but he almost fancied that he 
saw this new thing pass from her face, leaving her pale and 
tremulous. She looked away again and busied herself 
with the tea-caddy, but the fingers which held the spoon 
were shaking a little. 

“Oh, I suppose I could forget,” she said, “but it would 
be very difficult for either of us to behave as though it 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE 169 

had never happened. Besides, it really was an impossible 
situation, you know,” she went on, looking down into the 
tea-caddy. “It is much better for me to be here with 
Annie. You can come and see me now and then and we 
can still be very good friends.” 

Tavernake was annoyed. He said nothing, and Beatrice, 
glancing up, laughed at his gloomy expression. 

“You certainly are,” she declared, “the most impos- 
sible, the most primitive person I ever met. London is n’t 
Arcadia, you know, and you are not my brother. Besides, 
you were such an autocrat. You did n’t even like my 
going out to supper with Mr. Grier.” 

“I hate the fellow!” Tavernake admitted. “Are you 
seeing much of him?” 

“He took us all out to supper last night,” she replied. 
“I thought it was very kind of him to ask me.” 

“Kind, indeed! Does he want to marry you?” Taver- 
nake demanded. 

She set down the teapot and again she laughed softly. 
In her plain black gown, very simple, adorned only by 
the little white bow at her neck, quakerlike and spotless, 
with the added color in her cheeks, too, which seemed to 
have come there during the last few moments, she was a 
very alluring person. 

“He can’t,” she declared. “He is married already.” 

Then there came to Tavernake an inspiration, an in- 
spiration so wonderful that he gripped the sides of his 
chair and sat up. Here, after all, was the way out for him, 
the way out from his garden of madness, the way to es- 
cape from that mysterious, paralyzing yoke whose bur- 
den was already heavy upon his shoulders. In that swift, 
vivid moment he saw something of the truth. He saw 
himself losing all his virility, the tool and plaything of 


170 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

this woman who had bewitched him, a poor, fond creature 
living only for the kind words and glances she might 
throw him at her pleasure. In those few seconds he knew 
the true from the false. Without hesitation, he gripped 
with all the colossal selfishness of his unthinking sex at 
the rope which was thrown to him. 

“Well, then, I do',” he said firmly. “Will you marry 
me, Beatrice?” 

She threw her head back and laughed, laughed long and 
softly, and Tavernake, simple and unversed in the ways 
of women, believed that she was indeed amused. 

“Neither you nor any one else, dear Leonard!” she 
exclaimed. 

“But I want you to,” he persisted. “I think that you 
will.” 

There was coquetry now in the tantalizing look she 
flashed him. 

“Am I, too, then, one of these things to be attained in 
your life?” she asked. “Dear Leonard, you must n’t say 
it like that. I don’t like the look of your jaw. It frightens 
me.” 

“There is nothing to be afraid of in marrying me,” he 
answered. “I should make you a very good husband. 
Some day you would be rich, very rich indeed. I am quite 
sure that I shall succeed, if not at once, very soon. There 
is plenty of money to be made in the world if one per- 
severes.” 

She had the air of trying to take him seriously. 

“You sound quite convincing,” she admitted, “but I 
do wish that you would put all these thoughts out of your 
mind, Leonard. It does n’t sound like you in the least. 
Remember what you told me that first night; you assured 
me that women had not the slightest part in your life.” 


An offer of marriage 


171 

“I have changed,” he confessed. “I did not expect 
anything of the sort to happen, but it has. It would be 
foolish of me to deny it. I have been all my life learning, 
Beatrice,” he continued, with a sudden curious softness 
in his tone, “and yet, somehow or other, it seems to me 
that I never knew anything at all until lately. There was 
no one to direct me, no one to show me just what is worth 
while in life. You have taught me a great deal, you have 
taught me how little I know. And there are things,” he 
went on, solemnly, “of which I am afraid, things which I 
do not begin even to understand. Can’t you see how it 
is with me? I am really very ignorant. I want some one 
who understands; I want you, Beatrice, very badly.” 

She patted the back of his hand caressingly. 

“You mustn’t talk like that, Leonard,” she said. “I 
should n’t make you a good wife. I am not going to 
marry any one.” 

“And why?” he asked. 

She shook her head. 

“That is my secret,” she told him, looking into the 
fire. 

“You mean to say that you will never marry?” he 
persisted. 

“Oh, I suppose I shall change, like other women,” she 
answered. “Just at present, I feel like that.” 

“Is it because your sister’s marriage — ” 

She caught hold of both his hands; her eyes were sud- 
denly full of terror. 

“You must n’t talk about Elizabeth,” she begged, “you 
please must n’t talk about her. Promise that you won’t.” 

“But I came here to talk about her,” he replied. 

Beatrice, for a moment, said nothing. Then she threw 
down his hands and laughed once more. As she flung 


172 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

herself back in her place, it seemed to Tavernake that he 
saw once more the girl who had stood upon the roof of the 
boarding-house. 

“You came to talk about Elizabeth!” she exclaimed. 
“I forgot. Well, go on, what is it?” 

“Your sister is in trouble!” 

“Are you her confidant?” Beatrice asked. 

“I am not exactly that,” he admitted, “but she has 
asked me to come and see you.” 

Beatrice had suddenly grown hard, her lips were set 
together, even her attitude was uncompromising. 

“Say exactly what you have to say,” she told him. “I 
will not interrupt.” 

“It sounds foolish,” Tavernake declared, “because I 
know so little, but it seems that your sister is being an- 
noyed by a man named Pritchard, an American detective. 
She tells me that he suspects her of being concerned in 
some way with the disappearance of her husband. One 
of his reasons is that you left her abruptly and went into 
hiding, that you will not see or speak to her. She wishes 
you to be reconciled.” 

“Is that all?” Beatrice asked. 

“It is all,” he replied, “so long as you understand its 
significance. If you go to see your sister, or let her come 
to see you, this man Pritchard will have one of his causes 
for suspicion removed.” 

“So you came as Elizabeth’s ambassador,” Beatrice 
said, half as though to herself. “Well, here is my answer. 
I will not go to Elizabeth. If she finds out my whereabouts 
and comes here, then I shall go away again and hide. I 
shall never willingly exchange another word with her as 
long as I live.” 

Tavernake looked at her doubtfully. 


173 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE 

“But she is your sister!” he explained. 

“She is my sister,” Beatrice repeated, “and yet what I 
have said to you I mean.” 

There was a short silence. Tavernake felt unaccount- 
ably ill at ease. Something had sprung up between them 
which he did not understand. He was swift to recognize, 
however, the note of absolute finality in her tone. 

“I have given my message,” he declared. “I shall tell 
her what you say. Perhaps I had better go now.” 

He half rose to his feet. Suddenly she lost control of 
herseh. 

“Leonard, Leonard,” she cried, “don’t you see that 
you are being very foolish indeed? You have been good 
to me. Let me try and repay it a little. Elizabeth is my 
sister, but hsten! What I say to you now I say in deadly 
earnest. Elizabeth has no heart, she has no thought for 
other people, she makes use of them and they count for 
no more to her than the figures that pass through one’s 
dreams. She has some sort of hateful gift,” Beatrice con- 
tinued, and her voice shook and her eyes flashed, “some 
hateful gift of attracting people to her and making them 
do her bidding, of spoiling their lives and throwing them 
away when they have ceased to be useful. Leonard, you 
must not let her do this with you.” 

He rose to his feet awkwardly. Very hkely it was all 
true, and yet, what difference did it make? 

“ Thank you,” he said. 

They stood, for a moment, hand in hand. Then they 
heard the sound of a key in the lock. 

“Here ’s Annie coming back!” Beatrice exclaimed. 

Tavernake was introduced to Miss Annie Legarde, who 
thought he was a very strange person indeed because he 
did not fit in with any of the types of men, young or old. 


174 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

of whom she knew anything. And as for Tavernake, he 
considered that Miss Annie Legarde would have looked 
at least as well in a hat half the size, and much better 
without the powder upon her face. Her clothes were ob- 
viously more expensive than Beatrice’s, but they were 
put on with less care and taste. 

Beatrice came out on to the landing with him. 

“So you won’t marry me, Beatrice?” he said, as she 
held out her hand. 

She looked at him for a moment and then turned away 
with a faint sob, without even a word of farewell. He 
watched her disappear and heard the door shut. Slowly 
he began to descend the stone steps. There was some- 
thing to him a little fateful about the closed door above, 
the long yet easy descent into the street. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE BALCONY AT IMANO’s 

At six o’clock that evening, Tavernake rang up the Milan 
Court and inquired for Elizabeth. There was a moment 
or two’s delay and then he heard her reply. Even over the 
telephone wires, even though he stood, cramped and un- 
comfortable, in that stuffy little telephone booth, he felt 
the quick start of pleasure, the thrill of something differ- 
ent in life, which came to him always at the sound of her 
voice, at the slightest suggestion of her presence. 

“Well, my friend, what fortune?” she asked him. 

“None,” he answered. “I have done my best. Bea- 
trice will not listen to me.” 

“She will not come and see me?” 

“She will not.” 

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. When she spoke 
again, there was a change in her tone. 

“You have failed, then.” 

“I did everything that could be done,” Tavernake in- 
sisted eagerly. “I am quite sure that nothing anybody 
could say would move Beatrice. She is very decided 
indeed.” 

“I have another idea,” Elizabeth remarked, after a 
brief pause. “She will not come to me; very well, I must 
go to her. You must take me there.” 

“I cannot do that,” Tavernake answered. 


176 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Why not?” 

“Beatrice has refused absolutely to permit me to tell 
you or any one else of her whereabouts,” he declared. 
“Without her permission I cannot do it.” 

“Do you mean that?” she asked. 

“Of course,” he answered uncomfortably. 

There was another silence. When she spoke again, her 
voice had changed for the second time. Tavernake felt 
his heart sink as he listened. 

“Very well,” she said. “I thought that you were my 
friend, that you wished to help me.” 

“I do,” he replied, “but you would not have me break 
my word?” 

“You are breaking your word with me,” she told him. 

“ It is a different thing,” he insisted. 

“You will not take me there?” she said once more. 

“I cannot,” Tavernake answered. 

“Very well, good-bye!” 

“Don’t go,” he begged. “Can’t I see you somewhere 
for a few minutes this evening? ” 

“I am afraid not,” Elizabeth replied coolly. 

“Are you going out?” he persisted. 

“I am going to the Duke of York’s Theatre with some 
friends,” she answered. “I am sorry. You have disap- 
pointed me.” 

She rang off and he turned away from the telephone 
booth into the street. It seemed to him, as he walked 
down the crowded thoroughfare, that some reflection of 
his own self -contempt was visible in the countenances of 
the men and women who were hurrying past him. Wher- 
ever he looked, he was acutely conscious of it. In his heart 
he felt the bitter sense of shame of a man who wilfully 
succumbs to weakness. Yet that night he made his efforts. 


THE BALCONY AT IMANO’S 177 

For four hours he sat in his lonely rooms and worked. 
Then the unequal struggle was ended. With a groan he 
caught up his hat and coat and left the house. Half an 
hour later, he was among the little crowd of loiterers and 
footmen standing outside the doors of the Duke of York’s 
Theatre. 

It was still some time before the termination of the 
performance. As the slow minutes dragged by, he grew 
to hate himself, to hate this new thing in his life which 
had tom down his everyday standards, which had car- 
ried him off his feet in this strange and detestable fashion. 
It was a dormant sense, without a doubt, which Eliza- 
beth had stirred into life — the sense of sex, quiescent 
in him so long, chiefly through his perfect physical sanity; 
perhaps, too, in some measure, from his half-starved 
imagination. It was significant, though, that once aroused 
it burned with surprising and unwavering fidelity. The 
whole world of women now were different creatures to 
him, but they left him as utterly unmoved as in his un- 
awakened days. It was Elizabeth only he wanted, craved 
for fiercely, with all this late-born passion of mingled 
sentiment and desire. He felt himself, as he hung round 
there upon the pavement, rubbing shoulders with the 
liveried servants, the loafers, and the passers-by, a thing 
to be despised. He was like a whipped dog fawning back 
to his master. Yet if only he could persuade her to come 
with him, if it were but for an hour! If only she would 
sit opposite him in that wonderful little restaurant, where 
the lights and the music, the laughter and the wine, were 
all outward symbols of this new life from before which 
her fingers seemed to have torn aside the curtains! His 
heart beat with a fierce impatience. He watched the 
thin stream of people who left before the play was over, 


178 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

suburbanites mostly, in a hurry for their trains. Very 
soon the whole audience followed, commissionaires were 
busy with their whistles, the servants eagerly looldng 
right and left for their masters. And then Elizabeth ! 
She came out in the midst of half-a-dozen others, brilliant 
in a wonderful cloak and dress of turquoise blue, laughing 
with her friends, to all appearance the gayest of the party. 
Tavernake stepped quickly forward, but at that moment 
there was a crush and he could not advance. She passed 
within a yard of him, escorted by a couple of men, and 
for a moment their eyes met. She raised her eyebrows, 
as though in surprise, and her recognition was of the 
slightest. She passed on and entered a waiting motor- 
car, accompanied by the two men. Tavernake stood 
and looked after it. She did not even glance round. Ex- 
cept for that little gesture of cold surprise, she had ignored 
him. Tavernake, scarcely knowing what he did, turned 
slowly towards the Strand. 

He was face to face now with a crisis before which he 
seemed powerless. Men were there in the world to be 
bullied, cajoled, or swept out of the way. What did one 
do with a woman who was kind one moment and insolent 
the next, who raised her eyebrows and passed on when 
he wanted her, when he was there longing for her? Those 
old solid dreams of his — wealth, power, his name on 
great prospectuses, a position in the world — these things 
now appeared like the day fancies of a child. He had 
seen his way towards them. Already he had felt his 
feet upon the rungs of the ladder which leads to material 
success. This was something different, something greater. 
Then a sense of despair chilled his heart. He felt how 
ignorant, how helpless he was. He had not even studied 
the first text-book of life. Those very qualities which 


THE BALCONY AT IMANO’S 179 

had served him so well before were hopeless here. Per- 
sistence, Beatrice had told him once, only annoys a woman. 

He came to a standstill outside the entrance to the 
Milan Court, and retraced his steps. The thought of 
Beatrice had brought something soothing with it. He 
felt that he must see her, see her at once. He walked 
back along the Strand and entered the restaurant where 
Beatrice and he had had their memorable supper. From 
the vestibule he could just see Grier’s back as he stood 
talking to a waiter by the side of a round table in the 
middle of the room. Tavernake slowly withdrew and 
made his way upstairs. There were one or two little 
tables there in the balcony, hidden from the lower part 
of the room. He seated himself at one, handing his coat 
and hat mechanically to the waiter who came hurrying up. 

“But, Monsieur,” the man explained, with a depre- 
cating gesture, “these tables are all taken.” 

Tavernake, who kept an account book in which he 
registered even his car fares, put five shillings in the 
man’s hand. 

“This one I will have,” he said, firmly, and sat down. 

The man looked at him and turned aside to speak to 
the head waiter. They conversed together in whispers. 
Tavernake took no notice. His jaw was set. Himself 
unseen, he was gazing steadfastly at that table below. 
The head waiter shrugged his shoulders and departed; 
his other clients must be mollified. There was a finality 
which was unanswerable about Tavernake’s methods. 

Tavernake ate and drank what they brought to him, 
ate and drank and suffered. Everything was as it had 
been that other night — the popping of corks, the soft 
music, the laughter of women, the pleasant, luxurious 
sense of warmth and gayety pervading the whole place. 


i8o THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


It was all just the same, but this time he sat outside and 
looked on. Beatrice was seated next Grier, and on her 
other side was a young man of the type which Tavernake 
detested, partly because it inspired him with a reluctant 
but insistent sense of inferiority. The young man was 
handsome, tall, and thin. His evening clothes fitted him 
perfectly, his studs and links were of the latest mode, 
his white tie arranged as though by the fingers of an artist. 
And yet he was no tailor’s model. A gentleman, beyond 
a doubt, Tavernake decided, watching grudgingly the 
courteous movement of his head, listening sometimes to 
his well-bred but rather languid voice. Beatrice laughed 
often into his face. She admired him, of course. How 
could she help it! Grier sat at her other side. He, too, 
talked to her whenever he had the chance. It was a new 
fever which Tavernake was tasting, a new fever burning 
in his blood. He was jealous; he hated the whole party 
below. In imagination he saw Elizabeth with her friends, 
supping most likely in that other, more resplendent 
restaurant, only a few yards away. He imagined her 
the centre of every attention. Without a doubt, she was 
looking at her neighbor as she had looked at him. Taver- 
nake bit his lip, frowning. If he had had it in his power, 
in those black moments, to have thrown a thunderbolt 
from his place, he would, have wrecked every table in the 
room, he would have watched with joy the white, startled 
faces of the revelers as they fled away into the night. It 
was a new torture, indescribable, bitter. Indeed, this 
curiosity of his, of which he had spoken to Beatrice as 
they had walked together down Oxford Street on that 
first evening, was being satisfied with a vengeance! He 
was learning of those other things of life. He had sipped 
at the sweetness; he was drinking the bitters! 


THE BALCONY AT IMANO’S i8i 

An altercation by his side distracted him. Again there 
was the head waiter and a protesting guest. Tavernake 
looked up and recognized Professor Franklin. With his 
broad-brimmed hat in his hand, the professor, in fluent 
phraseology and a strong American accent, was making 
himself decidedly disagreeable. 

“You had better send for your manager right away, 
young man,” he declared. “On Tuesday night he brought 
me here himself and I engaged this table for the week. 
No, I tell you I won’t have any other! I guess my order 
was good enough. You send for Luigi right here. You 
know who I am? Professor Franklin’s my name, from 
New York, and if I say I mean to have a thing, I expect 
to get it.” 

For the first time he recognized Tavernake, and paused 
for a moment in his speech. 

“Have I got your table. Professor?” Tavernake asked, 
slowly. 

“You have, sir,” the professor answered. “I did not 
recognize you when I came in or I would have addressed 
you personally. I have particular reasons for occupying 
a front table here every night this week.” 

The thoughts began to crowd in upon Tavernake’s 
brain. He hesitated. 

“Why not sit down with me?” he suggested. 

The professor acquiesced without a word. The head 
waiter, with a sigh of relief, took his hat and overcoat 
and accepted his order. Tavernake leaned across the 
table. 

“Professor,” he said, “why do you insist upon sitting 
up here?” 

The professor moved his head slowly downwards. 

“My young friend, I speak to you in confidence?” 


i 82 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“In confidence,” Tavernake repeated. 

“I come here secretly,” the professor continued, “be- 
cause it is the only chance I have of seeing a very dear 
relative of mine. I am obliged to keep away from her 
just now, but from here I can watch, I can see that she 
is well.” 

“You mean your daughter Beatrice,” Tavernake said, 
calmly. 

The professor trembled all over. 

“You know!” he muttered. 

“Yes, I know,” Tavernake answered. “I have been 
able to be of some slight assistance to your daughter 
Beatrice.” 

The professor grasped his hand. 

“Yes, yes,” he said, “Elizabeth is very angry with 
you because you will not tell her where to find the little 
girl. You are right, Mr. Tavernake. You must never 
tell her.” 

“I don’t intend it,” Tavernake declared. 

“Say, this is a great evening for me!” the professor 
went on, eagerly. “I found out by accident myself. I 
was at the bar and I saw her come in with a lot of others.” 

“Why don’t you go and speak to her?” Tavernake 
asked. 

The professor shivered. 

“There has been a disagreement,” he explained. 
“Beatrice and Elizabeth have quarreled. Mind you, 
Beatrice was right.” 

“Then why don’t you go to her instead of staying with 
Elizabeth?” Tavernake demanded, bluntly. 

The professor temporarily collapsed. He drank heavily 
of the whiskey and soda by his side, and answered 
gloomily. 


THE BALCONY AT IMANO^S 183 

“My young friend,” lie said, “Beatrice, when she left 
us, was penniless. Mind you, Elizabeth is the one with 
brains. It is Elizabeth who has the money. She has a 
strong will, too. She keeps me there whether I will or 
not, she makes me do many things — many things, surely 
— which I hate. But Ehzabeth has her way. If I had 
gone with Beatrice, if I were to go to her now, I should 
be only a burden upon her.” 

“You have no money, then?” Tavemake remarked. 

The professor shook his head sadly. 

“Speculations, my young friend,” he replied, “specu- 
lations undertaken solely with the object of making a for- 
tune for my children. I have had money and lost it.” 

“Can’t you earn any?” Tavernake asked. “Beatrice 
does n’t seem extravagant.” 

The professor regarded this outspoken young man with 
an air of hurt dignity. 

“If you will forgive me,” he said. “I think that we 
will choose another subject of conversation.” 

“At any rate,” Tavernake declared, “you must be 
fond of your daughter or you would not come here night 
after night just to look at her.” 

The professor shook out a handkerchief from his pocket 
and dabbed his eyes. 

“Beatrice was always my favorite,” he announced 
solemnly, “but Elizabeth — well, you can’t get away 
from Elizabeth,” he added, leaning across the table. “To 
tell you the truth, Mr. Tavernake, Elizabeth terrifies 
me sometimes, she is so bold. I am afraid where her 
scheming may land us. I would be happier with Beatrice 
if only she had the means to satisfy my trifling wants.” 

He turned to the waiter and ordered a pint of cham- 
pagne. 


i 84 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“Veuve Clicquot ’99,” he instructed the man. “At my 
age,” he remarked, with a sigh, “one has to be careful 
about these little matters. The wrong brand of cham- 
pagne means a sleepless night.” 

Tavernake looked at him in a puzzled way. The pro- 
fessor was a riddle to him. He represented no type which 
had come within the orbit of his experience. With the 
arrival of the champagne, the professor became almost 
eloquent. He leaned forward, gazing stealthily down at 
the round table. 

“If I could tell you of that girl’s mother, Mr. Taver- 
nake,” he said, “if I could tell you what her history, our 
history, has been, it would seem to you so strange that 
you would probably regard me as a romancer. No, we 
have to carry our secrets with us.” 

“By-thebye,” Tavernake asked, “what are you a 
professor of?” 

“Of the hidden sciences, sir,” was the immediate reply. 
“Phrenology was my earliest love. Since then I have 
studied in the East; I have spent many years in a monas- 
tery in China. I have gratified in every way my natural 
love of the occult. I represent to-day those people of 
advanced thought who have traveled, even in spirit, 
for ever such a little distance across the line which 
divides the Seen from the Unseen, the Known from the 
Infinite.” 

He took a long draught of champagne. Tavernake 
gazed at him in blank amazement. 

“I don’t know much about science,” he said. “It is 
only lately that I have begun to realize how ignorant I 
really am. Your daughter has helped to teach me.” 

The professor sighed heavily. 

“A young woman of attainments, sir,” he remarked. 


THE BALCONY AT IMANO’S 185 

“of character, too. Look at the way she carries her 
head. That was a trick of her mother’s.” 

“Don’t you mean to speak to her at all, then?” Taver- 
nake asked. 

“I dare not,” the professor replied. “I am naturally 
of a truthful disposition, and if Elizabeth were to ask me 
if I had spoken to her sister, I should give myself away 
at once. No, I look on and that is all.” 

Tavernake drummed with his fingers upon the table- 
cloth. Something in the merriment of that little party 
downstairs had filled him with a very bitter feeling. 

“You ought to go and claim her, professor,” he de- 
clared. “Look down at them now. Is that the best life 
for a girl? The men are almost strangers to her, and the 
girls are not fit for her to associate with. She has no 
friends, no relatives. Your daughter Elizabeth can do 
without you very well. She is strong enough to take 
care of herself.” 

“But my dear sir,” the professor objected, “Beatrice 
could not support me.” 

Tavernake paid his bill without another word. Down- 
stairs the lights had been lowered, the party at the round 
table were already upon their feet. 

“Good-night, professor!” he said. “I am going to 
see the last of Beatrice from the top of the stairs.” 

The professor followed him — they stood there and 
watched her depart with Annie Legarde. The two girls 
got into a taxicab together, and Tavernake breathed a 
sigh of relief, a relief for which he was wholly unable to 
account, when he saw that Grier made no effort to follow 
them. As soon as the taxi had rolled away, they descended 
and passed into the street. Then the professor suddenly 
changed his tone. 


i86 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “I know what you are 
thinking about me: I am a weak old man who drinks 
too much and who was n’t born altogether honest. I 
can’t give up anything. I ’d be happier, really happier, 
on a crust with Beatrice, but I dare n’t, I simply dare n’t 
try it. I prefer the flesh pots with Elizabeth, and you 
despise me for it. I don’t blame you, Mr. Tavernake, 
but hsten.” 

“Well?” Tavernake interjected. 

The professor’s Angers gripped his arm. 

“You’ve known Beatrice longer — you don’t know 
Elizabeth very well, but let me tell you this. Elizabeth 
is a very wonderful person. I know something about 
character, I know something about those hidden powers 
which men and women possess — strange powers which 
no one can understand, powers which drag a man to a 
woman’s feet, or which make him shiver when he passes an- 
other even in a crowd. You see, these things are a science 
with me, Mr. Tavernake, but I don’t pretend to under- 
stand everything. All I know is that Ehzabeth is one of 
those people who can just do what she likes with men. 
I am her father and I am her slave. I tell myself that I 
would rather be with Beatrice, and I am as powerless to 
go as though I were bound with chains. You are a young 
ignorant man, Mr. Tavernake, you know nothing of life, 
and I will give you a word of warning. It is better for 
you that you k6ep away from over there.” 

He raised one hand and pointed across the street towards 
the Milan Court; with the other he once more gripped 
Tavernake’s arm. 

“Why she should take the trouble even to speak with 
you for a moment, I do not know,” the professor con- 
tinued, “but she does. It has pleased her to talk with 


THE BALCONY AT IMANO^S 187 

you — why I can’t imagine — only if I were you I would 
get away while there is yet time. She is my daughter but 
she has no heart, no pity. I saw her smile at you. I am 
sorry always for the man she smiles upon like that. Good- 
night, Mr. Tavernake!” 

The professor crossed the street. Tavernake watched 
him until he was out of sight. Then he felt an arm thrust 
through his. 

“Why, this is what I call luck!” a familiar voice ex- 
claimed. “Mr. Tavernake, you’re the very man I was 
looking for!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 

Tavernake was not sociably inclined and took no pains 
to conceal the fact. Mr. Pritchard, however, was not 
easily to be shaken off. 

“So you’ve been palling up to the old man, eh?” he 
remarked, in friendly fashion. 

“I came across the professor unexpectedly,” Tavernake 
answered, coldly. “What do you want with me, please? 
I am on my way home.” 

Pritchard laughed softly to himself. 

“Say, there’s something about you Britishers I can’t 
help admiring!” he declared. “You are downright, 
aren’t you?” 

“I suppose you think we are too clumsy to be anything 
else,” Tavernake replied. “This is my ’bus coming. 
Good-night!” 

Pritchard’s hand, however, tightened upon his com- 
panion’s arm. 

“Look here, young man,” he said, “don’t you be 
foolish. I ’m a valuable acquaintance for you, if you 
only realized it. Come along across the street with me. 
My club is on the Terrace, just below. Stroll along there 
with me and I’ll tell you something about the professor, 
if you like.” 

“Thank you,” Tavernake answered, “I don’t think 


A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 189 

I care about hearing gossip. Besides, I think I know all 
there is to be known about him.” 

“Did you give Miss Beatrice my message?” Pritchard 
asked suddenly. 

“If I did,” Tavernake replied, “I have no answer for 
you.” 

“Will you tell her this,” Pritchard began, — 

“No, I will tell her nothing!” Tavernake interrupted. 
“You can look after your own affairs. I have no interest 
in them and I don’t want to have. Good-night!” 

Pritchard laughed again but he did not relax his grasp 
upon the other’s arm. 

“Now, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, “it won’t do for you 
to quarrel with me. I should n’t be surprised if you 
discovered that I am one of the most useful acquaint- 
ances you ever met in your life. You need n’t come into 
the club unless you like, but walk as far as there with me. 
When we get on to the Terrace, with closed houses on 
one side and a palisade upon the other, I am going to 
say something to you.” 

“Very well,” Tavernake decided, reluctantly. “I 
don’t know what there is you can have to tell me, but 
I ’ll come as far as there, at any rate.” 

They crossed the Strand and turned into Adam Street. 
As they neared the further corner, Pritchard stepped 
from the pavement into the middle of the street, and 
looked searchingly around. 

“Say, you’ll excuse my being a little careful,” he re- 
marked. “This is rather a lonely part for the middle of 
London, and I have been followed for the last two days 
by people whose company I am not over keen about.” 

“Followed? What for?” Tavernake demanded. 

“Oh, the usual thing!” answered the detective, with 


igo THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

a shrug of the shoulders. “That company of crooks I 
showed you last night don’t fancy having me around. 
They’ve a good many grudges up against Sam Pritchard. 
I am not quite so safe over here as I should be in New 
York. Most of them are off to Paris to-morrow, thank 
Heavens!” 

“And you?” Tavernake asked. “Are you going, too?” 

Pritchard shook his head. 

“If only those fools would believe it, I’m not over here 
on their business at all. I came over on a special com- 
mission this time, as you know. I have a word of warn- 
ing for you, Mr. Tavernake. I guess you won’t like to 
hear it, but you’ve got to.” 

Tavernake stopped short. 

“I don’t want your warnings!” he said angrily. “I 
don’t want you interfering in my affairs!” 

The detective smiled quietly. Then a new expression 
suddenly tightened his lips. 

“Never mind about that just now!” he exclaimed. 
“See here, take this police whistle from my left hand, 
quick, and blow it for all that you are worth!” 

It was characteristic of Tavernake that he was pre- 
pared to obey without a second’s hesitation. The oppor- 
tunity, however, was denied him. The events which 
followed came and passed like a thought. A blow on his 
left wrist and the whistle fell into the road. A dark figure 
had sprung up, apparently from space; a long arm was 
twined around Pritchard’s neck, bending him backwards; 
there was a gleam of steel within a few inches of his 
throat. And then Tavernake saw a wonderful thing. 
With a turn of his wrist, Pritchard suddenly seemed to 
lift the form of his assailant into the air. Tavernake 
caught a swift impression of a man’s white face, the head 


A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE igr 

pointing to the street, the legs twitching convulsively. 
Head over heels Pritchard seemed to throw him, while 
the knife clattered harmlessly into the roadway. The 
man lay crumpled up and moaning before the door of 
one of the houses. Pritchard sprang after him. The 
door had been cautiously opened and the man crawled 
through; Pritchard followed; then the door closed and 
Tavernake beat upon it in vain. 

For several seconds — it seemed to Tavernake much 
longer — he stood gazing at the door, breathing heavily, 
absolutely unable to collect his thoughts. The whole 
affair had happened with such amazing celerity! He 
could not bring himself to realize it, to believe that it 
was Pritchard who had been with him only a few seconds 
ago, who in danger of his life had performed that mar- 
velous trick of jiu-jitsu, had followed his unknown assail- 
ant into that dark, mysterious house, from no single 
window of which was a single gleam of light visible. 
Tavernake had led an uneventful life. Of the passions 
which breed murder and the desire to kill he knew noth- 
ing. He was dazed with the suddenness of it all. How 
could such a thing happen in the midst of London, in a 
thoroughfare only momentarily deserted, at the further 
end of which, indeed, were many signs of life! Then the 
thought of that knife made him shiver — blue glittering 
steel cutting the air like whipcord. He remembered the 
look in the assassin’s face — horrible, an epitome of the 
passions, which seemed to reveal to him in that moment 
the existence of some other, some unknown world, about 
which he had neither read nor dreamed. 

The sound of footsteps came as an immense relief. 
A man came round the corner, smoking a cigarette and 
humming softly to himself. The presence of another 


192 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

human being seemed suddenly to bring Tavernake’s feet 
back upon the earth. He moved toward the pavement 
and addressed the newcomer. 

“Can you tell me how to get inside that house?’’ he 
asked quickly. 

The man removed the cigarette from his mouth and 
stared at his questioner. 

“I should ring the bell/’ he replied, “but surely 
it ’s unoccupied? What do you want to get in there 
for?” 

“Less than a minute ago,” Tavernake told him, “I 
was walking here with a friend. A man came up behind 
us and tried deliberately to stab him. He bolted after- 
wards through that door, my friend followed him, the 
door was closed in my face.” 

The newcomer was a youngish man, a musician, who 
had just come from a concert and was on his way to 
the club at the end of the street. Probably, had he been 
a journalist, his curiosity would have been greater than 
his incredulity. As it was, however, he gazed at Tav- 
ernake, for a moment, blankly. 

“Look here,” he said, “this doesn’t sound a very 
likely story of yours, you know.” 

“I don’t care whether it’s likely or not,” Tavernake 
answered hotly; “it’s true! The knife’s somewhere in 
the road there — it fell up against the railings.” 

They crossed the road together and searched. There 
were no signs of the weapon. Tavernake peered over 
the railings. 

“When my friend struck the other man and twisted 
him over,” he explained, “the knife seemed to fly up 
into the air; it might even have reached the gardens.” 

His companion turned slowly away. 


A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 


193 

“Well, it’s no use looking down there for it,” he re- 
marked. “We might try the door, if you like.” 

They leaned their weight against it, hammered at the 
panels, and waited. The door was fast closed and no 
reply came. The musician shrugged his shoulders and 
prepared to depart, after one more glance at Tavernake, 
half suspicious, haK questioning. 

“If you think it worth while,” he said, “you had better 
fetch the police, perhaps. If you take my advice, though, 
I think I should go home and forget all about it.” 

He passed on, leaving Tavernake speechless. The idea 
that people might not believe his story had never seriously 
occurred to him. Yet all of a sudden he began to doubt 
it himself. He stepped back into the road and looked up 
at the windows of the house — dark, uncurtained, re- 
vealing no sign of life or habitation. Had he really taken 
that walk with Pritchard, stood on this spot with him 
only a minute or two ago? Then he picked up the police 
whistle and he had no longer any doubts. The whole 
scene was before him again, more vividly than ever. 
Even at this moment, Pritchard might be in need of 
help! 

He turned and walked sharply to the corner of the 
Terrace, finding himself almost immediately face to face 
with a policeman. 

“You must come into this house with me at once!” 
Tavernake exclaimed, pointing backwards. “A friend 
of mine was attacked here just now; a man tried to stab 
him. They are both in that house. The man ran away 
and my friend followed him. The door is closed and no 
one answers.” 

The constable looked at Tavernake very much as the 
musician had done. 


194 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“Do either of them live there, sir?” he asked. 

“How should I know!” Tavernake answered. “The 
man sprang upon my friend from behind. He had a 
knife in his hand — I saw it. My friend threw him over 
and he escaped into that house. They are both there 
now.” 

“Which house is it, sir?” the policeman inquired. 

They were standing almost in front of it. The gate 
was open and Tavernake beat against the panels with the 
flat of his hand. Then, with a cry of triumph, he stooped 
down and picked something up from a crack in the flagged 
stones. 

“The key!” he cried. “Come on, quick!” 

He thrust it into the lock and turned it; the door 
swung smoothly open. The policeman laid his hand upon 
Tavernake ’s shoulder. 

“Look here,” he said, “let’s have that story of yours 
again, a little more clearly. Who is it that’s in this 
house?” 

“ Five minutes ago,” Tavernake began, speaking rapidly, 
“I met a man in the Strand whom I know slightly — 
Pritchard, an American detective. He said that he had 
something to say to me and he asked me to walk round 
with him to a club in this Terrace. We were in the middle 
of the road there, talking, when a man sprang at him; he 
must have come up behind quite, noiselessly. The man 
had a knife in his hand. My friend threw him head over 
heels — it was some trick of jiu-jitsu; I have seen it 
done at the Polytechnic. He fell in front of this door 
which must either have been ajar or else some one who 
was waiting must have let him in. He crawled through 
and my friend followed him. The door was slammed in 
my face.” 


A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 


195 


“How long ago was this?” the policeman asked. 

“Not much more than five minutes,” Tavernake 
answered. 

The policeman coughed. 

“It’s a very queer story, sir.” 

“It’s true!” Tavernake declared, fiercely. “You and 
I have got to search this house.” 

The policeman nodded. 

“There ’s no harm in that, sir, anyway.” 

He flashed his lantern around the hall — unfurnished, 
with paper hanging from the walls. Then they began to 
enter the rooms, one by one. Nowhere was there any 
sign of occupation. From floor to floor they passed, in 
grim silence. In the front chamber of the attic was a 
camp bedstead, two or three humble articles of furniture, 
and a small stove. 

“Caretaker’s kit,” the policeman muttered. “Nothing 
seems to have been used for some time.” 

They descended the stairs again. 

“You say you saw the two men enter this house, sir?” 
the policeman remarked doubtfully. 

“I did,” Tavernake declared. “There is no doubt 
about it.” 

“The back entrances are all properly locked,” the 
policeman pointed out. “None of the windows by which 
any one could escape have been opened. We’ve been 
into every room. There’s no one in the house now, sir, 
is there?” 

“There does n’t seem to be,” Tavernake admitted. 

The policeman looked him over once more; Tavernake 
certainly had not the appearance of one attempting a 
Hoax. 

“I am afraid there is nothing more we can do, sir,” 


196 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

the man said civilly. “You had better give me your 
name and address.” 

“Can’t we go over the place once more?” Tavernake 
suggested. “I tell you I saw them come in.” 

“I have my beat outside to look after, sir,” the con- 
stable answered. “If it wasn’t that you seem respect- 
able, I should begin to think that you wanted me out 
of the way for a bit. Name and address, please.” 

Tavernake gave them readily. They passed out to- 
gether into the street. 

“I shall report this matter,” the man said, closing his 
book. “Perhaps the sergeant will have the house searched 
again. If you take my advice, sir,” he added, “you ’ll 
go home.” 

“I saw them both pass through that door,” Tavernake 
repeated, half to himself, still standing upon the pave- 
ment and staring at the unlit windows. 

The constable made no reply but moved off. Soon he 
reached the corner of the Terrace and disappeared. 
Tavernake slowly crossed the road and with his back to 
the railings looked steadfastly at the dark front of gray 
stone houses. Big Ben struck one o’clock, several people 
passed backwards and forwards. Men were coming 
out from the club, and separating for the night; the 
roar of the city was growing fainter. Yet Tavernake 
felt indisposed to move. The look in that man’s drawn 
white face and black eyes haunted him. There was 
tragedy there, the shadow of terrible things, fear, and the 
murderous desire to kill! Through that door they had 
passed, the two men, one in flight, the other in pursuit. 
Where were they now? Perhaps it had been a trap. 
Pritchard had spoken seriously enough of his enemies. 

Then, as he stood there, he saw for the first time a 


A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 


197 

thin line of light through the closely-drawn curtains of 
a room on the ground floor of the adjoining house. With- 
out a moment’s hesitation, he crossed the road and rang 
the bell. The door was opened, after a trifling delay, by 
a man in plain clothes, who might, however, have been 
a servant in mufti. He looked at Tavernake suspiciously. 

“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” Tavernake ex- 
plained, “but I saw some one go in the house next to 
you, a little time ago. Can you tell me if you have heard 
any noises or voices during the last haK-hour?” 

The man shook his head. 

“We have heard nothing, sir,” he said. 

“Who lives here?” Tavernake asked. 

“Did you call me up at one o’clock in the morning to 
ask silly questions?” the man replied insolently. “Every 
one’s in bed here and I was just going.” 

“There’s a light in your ground floor room,” Tavernake 
remarked. “There’s some one talking there now — I 
can hear voices.” 

The man closed the door in his face. For some time 
Tavernake wandered restlessly about, starting at last 
reluctantly homewards. He had reached the Strand 
and was crossing Trafalgar Square when a sudden thought 
held him. He stood still for a moment in the middle of 
the street. Then he turned abruptly round. In less than 
five minutes he was once more on the Terrace. 


CHAPTER XIX 


TAVERNAKE INTERVENES 

Tavernake had the feelings of a man suddenly sobered 
as he turned once more into the Adelphi Terrace. Waiting 
until no one was in sight, he opened the door of the empty 
house with the Yale key which he had kept, and carefully 
closed it. He struck a match and listened for several 
minutes intently; not a sound from anywhere. He moved 
a few yards further to the bottom of the stairs, and listened 
again; still silence. He turned the handle of the ground 
floor apartment and commenced a fresh search. Room 
by room he examined by the light of his rapidly dwindling 
matches. This time he meant to leave behind him no 
possibility of any mistake. He even measured the depths 
of the walls for any secret hiding place. From room to 
room he passed, leisurely, always on the alert, always 
listening. Once, as he opened a door on the third floor 
there was a soft scurrying as though of a skirt across the 
floor. He struck a match quickly, to find a great rat sit- 
ting up and looking at him with black, beady eyes. It was 
the only sign of life he found in the whole building. 

When he had finished his search, he came down to the 
ground floor and entered the room corresponding with 
the one from which he had heard voices in the adjoining 
house. He crouched here upon the dusty boards for 
some time, listening. Now and then he fancied that he 


TAVERNAKE INTERVENES 199 

could still hear voices on the other side of the wall, but 
he was never absolutely certain. 

At last he rose to stretch himself, and almost as he did 
so a fresh sound from outside attracted his notice. A 
motor-car had turned into the Terrace. He walked to 
the uncurtained window and stood there, sure of being 
himseK unseen. Then his heart gave a great leap. Un- 
emotional though he was, this was a happening which 
might well have excited a more phlegmatic individual. A 
motor-car which he remembered very well, although it 
was driven now by a man in dark livery, had stopped at 
the next house. A woman and two men had descended. 
Tavernake never glanced at the latter; his eyes were 
fastened upon their companion. She was wrapped in a 
long cloak, but she lifted her skirts as she crossed the 
pavement, and he saw the flash of her silver buckles. 
Her carriage, her figure, were unmistakable. It was 
Elizabeth who was paying this early morning visit next 
door! Already the little party had disappeared. They 
did not even ring the bell. The door must have been 
opened silently at their coming. The motor-car glided 
off. Once more the Terrace was deserted. 

Tavernake felt sure that he knew now the solution, — 
there was a way from this house into the next one. He 
struck another match and, standing back a few yards, 
looked critically at the dividing wall. In ancient days 
this had evidently been a dwelling-house of importance, 
elaborately decorated, as the fresco work upon the ceiling 
still indicated. The wall had been divided into three 
panels, with a high wainscoting. Inch by inch he ex- 
amined it from one end to the other; he started from the 
back and came toward the front. About three-quarters 
of the way there, he paused. It was very simple, after 


200 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

all. The solid wall for a couple of feet suddenly ceased, 
and the design was continued with an expanse of stretched 
canvas, which yielded easily to his finger. He leaned his 
ear against it; he could hear now distinctly the sound of 
voices — he heard even the woman’s laughter. For the 
height of about four feet the wall had been bodily re- 
moved. He made a small hole in the canvas — there 
was still darkness. He enlarged the hole until he could 
thrust his hand through — there was nothing but canvas 
the other side. He knew now where he was. There was 
only that single thickness of canvas between him and the 
room. He had but to make the smallest hole in it and he 
would be able to see through. Even now, with the re- 
moval of the barrier on his side, the voices were more dis- 
tinct. A complete section of the wall had evidently been 
taken out and replaced by a detachable framework of 
wood covered with stretched canvas. He stood back for 
a moment and felt with his finger; he could almost trace 
the spot where the woodwork fitted upon hinges. Then 
he went on his hands and knees again, and with his pen- 
knife in his hand he paused to listen. He could hear the 
man Crease talking — a slow, nasal drawl. Then he 
heard Pritchard’s voice, followed by what seemed to be a 
groan. There was a silence, then Elizabeth seemed to ask 
a question. He heard her low laugh and some note in it 
sent a shiver through his body. Pritchard was speaking 
fiercely now. Then, in the middle of his sentence, there 
was silence once more, followed by another groan. He 
could almost feel the people in that room holding their 
breaths. 

Tavernake was rapidly forgetting all caution. The 
point of his knife was through the canvas. Slowly he 
worked it round until a small piece, the size of a half- 


TAVERNAKE INTERVENES 


201 


crown, was partially cut through. With infinite pains he 
got his head and shoulders into the small recess and for 
the first time looked into the room. Pritchard was sitting 
almost in the middle of the apartment; his arms seemed 
to be bound to the chair and his legs were tied together. 
A few yards away, Elizabeth, her fur coat laid aside, was 
lounging back in an easy-chair, her dress all glittering with 
sequins, a curious light in her eyes, a cruel smile parting 
her lips. By her side — sitting, in fact, on the arm of her 
chair — was Crease, his long, worn face paler, even, than 
usual; his lips curled in a smile of cynical amusement. 
Major Post was there, carefully dressed as though he had 
been attending some social gathering, standing upon the 
hearth-rug with his coat-tails under his arms. The pro- 
fessor, in whose face seemed written the most abject terror, 
was talking. Tavernake now could hear every word 
distinctly. 

“My dear Elizabeth! My dear Crease! You are both 
too precipitate! I tell you that I protest — I protest 
most strongly. Mr. Pritchard, I am sure, with a little 
persuasion, will listen to reason. I will not be a party to 
any such proceeding as — as this. You understand. 
Crease? We have gone quite far enough as it is. I will 
not have it.” 

Elizabeth laughed softly. 

“My dear father,” she said, “you will really have to 
take something for your nerves. Nothing need happen to 
Mr. Pritchard at all unless he asks for it. He has his 
chance — no one should expect more.” 

“You are right, my dear Elizabeth,” declared Crease, 
speaking very slowly and with his usual drawl. “This 
question of his health for the future — at any rate, for the 
immediate future — is entirely in Pritchard’s own hands. 


202 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

There is no one who has received so many warnings as he. 
Bramley was cautioned twice; Mallison was warned three 
times and burned to death; Forsith had word from us 
only once, and he was shot in a drunken brawl. This man 
Pritchard has been warned a dozen times, he has escaped 
death twice. The time has come to show him that we are 
in earnest. Threats are useless; the time has come for 
deeds. I say that if Pritchard refuses this trifling request 
of ours, let us see that he leaves this house in such a state 
that he will not be able to do us any harm for some time 
at least.” 

“But he will give his word!” the professor cried ex- 
citedly. “I am quite sure that if you allow me to talk to 
him reasonably, he will pledge his word to go back to the 
States and interfere no longer with your affairs.” 

Pritchard turned his head slightly. He was a little 
pale, and the blood was dropping slowly on to the floor 
from a wound in his temple, but his tone was contemptu- 
ous. 

“I will give you my word. Professor, and you, Eliza- 
beth Gardner, and you, Jim Post, and you, Walter Crease, 
that crippled, or straight, in evil or good health, from the 
very jaws of death I will hang on to life until you have 
paid your just debts. You understand that, all of you? 
I don’t know what sort of a show this is. You may be in 
earnest, or you may be trying a rag. In any case, let me 
assure you of this. You won’t get me to beg for mercy. 
If you force me to drink that stuff you are talking about, 
I ’ll find the antidote, and as sure as there ’s a prison in 
America, so surely I ’ll make you suffer for it! If you 
take my advice,” he went on slowly, “and I know what 
I ’m talking about, you ’ll cut these ropes and set open 
your front door. You ’ll live longer, all of you.” 


TAVERNAKE INTERVENES 203 

“An idiot,” Elizabeth remarked pleasantly, “can do 
but little harm in the world. The word of a person of 
weak intellect is not to be relied upon. For my part, I 
am very tired of our friend, Mr. Pritchard. If you others 
had been disposed to go to much greater lengths, if you 
had said ‘Hang him from the ceiling,’ I should have been 
well pleased.” 

Pritchard made a slight movement in his chair — it 
was certainly not a movement of fear. 

“Madam,” he said, “I admire your candor. Let me 
return it. I don’t believe there ’s one of you here has the 
pluck to attempt to do me any serious injury. If there is, 
get on with it. You hear, Mr. Walter Crease.^ Bring out 
that bottle of yours.” 

Crease removed his cigar from his lips and rose slowly 
to his feet. From his waistcoat pocket he produced a 
small phial, from which he drew the cork. 

“Seems to me it ’s up to us to do the trick,” he remarked 
languidly. “Catch hold of his forehead, Jimmy.” 

The man known as Major Post threw away his cigarette, 
and coming round behind Pritchard’s chair, suddenly 
bent the man’s head backward. Crease advanced, phial 
in hand. Then all Hell seemed to be let loose in Taver- 
nake. He stepped back in his place and marked the extent 
of that wooden partition. Then, setting his teeth, he 
sprang at it, throwing the great weight of his massive 
shoulder against the framework door. Scratched and 
bleeding, but still upon his feet, he burst into the room, 
with the noise of bricks falling behind, — an apparition 
so unexpected that the little company gathered there 
seemed turned into some waxwork group from the Cham- 
ber of Horrors — motionless, without even the power of 
movement. 


204 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

Tavernake, in those few moments, was like a giant 
among a company of degenerates. He was strong, his 
muscles were like whipcord, and his condition was per- 
fect. Walter Crease went over like a log before his fist; 
Major Post felt the revolver at which he had snatched 
struck from his hand, and he himself remembered nothing 
more till he came to his senses some time afterwards. A 
slash and a cut and Pritchard was free. The professor 
stood wringing his hands. Elizabeth had risen to her feet. 
She was pale, but she was still more nearly composed than 
any other person in the room. Tavernake and Pritchard 
were masters of the situation. Pritchard leaned toward 
the mirror and straightened his tie. 

“I am afraid,’’ he said looking down at Walter Crease’s 
groaning figure, “ that our hosts are scarcely in fit condition 
to take leave of us. Never mind, Mrs. Gardner, we excuse 
ourselves to you. I cannot pretend to be sorry that my 
friend’s somewhat impetuous entrance has disturbed 
your plans for the evening, but I do hope that you will 
realize now the fatuousness of such methods in these days. 
Good-night! It is time we finished our stroll together, 
Tavernake.” 

They moved towards the door — there was no one to 
stop them. Only the professor tried to say a few words. 

“My dear Mr. Pritchard — my dear Pritchard, if you 
will allow me to call you so,” he exclaimed, “let me beg 
of you, before you leave us, not to take this trifling ad- 
venture too seriously ! I can assure you that it was simply 
an attempt to coerce you, not in the least an affair to be 
taken seriously!” 

Pritchard smiled. 

“Professor,” he said, “and you, Walter Crease, and 
you, Jimmy Post, if you ’re able to listen, listen to me. 


TAVERNAKE INTERVENES 


205 


You have played the part of children to-night. So surely 
as men and women exist who live as you do, so surely 
must the law wait upon their heels. You cannot cheat 
justice. It is as inexorable as Time itself. When you try 
these little tricks, you simply give another turn to the 
wheel, add another danger to life. You had better learn 
to look upon me as necessary, all of you, for I am certainly 
inevitable.” 

They passed backwards through the door, then they 
went down the silent hall and out into the street. Even 
as they did so, the clock struck a quarter to two. 

“My friend Tavernake,” Pritchard declared, lighting a 
cigarette with steady fingers, “you are a man. Come 
into the club with me while I bathe my forehead. After 
all, we ’ll have that drink together before we say good- 
night.” 


CHAPTER XX 


A PLEASANT REUNION 

Tavernake awoke some hours later with a puzzled sense 
of having lost his own identity, of having taken up an- 
other man’s life, stepped into another man’s shoes. From 
the day of his first arrival in London, a raw country 
youth, till the night when he had spoken to Beatrice on 
the roof of Blenheim House, nothing that could properly 
be called an adventure had ever happened to him. He 
had never for a moment felt the want of it; he had not 
even indulged in the reading of books of romance. The 
thing which had happened. last night, as in the cold morn- 
ing sunlight he sat up in his bed, seemed to him a thing 
grotesque, inconceivable. It was not really possible that 
those people — those well-bred, well-looking people — 
had seriously contemplated an enormity which seemed 
to belong to the back pages of history, or that he, Taver- 
nake, had burst through a wall with no weapons in his 
hand, and had dominated the situation! He sat there 
steadily thinking. It was incredible, but it was true! 
There existed still in his mind some faint doubt as to 
whether they would really have proceeded to extremities. 
Pritchard himself had made light of the whole affair, 
afterwards had treated it, indeed, as a huge practical 
joke. Tavernake, remembering that little group as he 
had first seen it, remained doubtful. 

By degrees, his own personal characteristics began to 


A PLEASANT REUNION 


207 

assert themselves. He began to wonder how his action 
would affect his commercial interests. He had probably 
made an enemy of this wonderful sister of Beatrice’s, the 
woman who had so completely filled his thoughts during 
the last few days, the woman, too, who was to have found 
the money by means of which he was to set his feet 
upon the first rung of the ladder. This was a thing, he de- 
cided, which must be settled at once. He must see her 
and know exactly what terms they were on, whether or not 
she meant to be off with her bargain. The thought of 
action of any sort was stimulating. He rose and dressed, 
had his breakfast, and set out on his pilgrimage. 

Soon after eleven o’clock, he presented himself at the 
Milan Court and asked for Mrs. Wenham Gardner. For 
several minutes he waited about in nervous anticipation, 
then he was told that she was not at home. More than a 
little disappointed, he pressed for news of her. The hall 
porter thought that she had gone down into the country, 
and if so it was doubtful when she would be back. Taver- 
nake was now seriously disconcerted. 

“I want particularly to wire to her,” he insisted. 
“Please find out from her maid how I shall direct a 
telegram.” 

The hall porter, who was a most superior person, re- 
garded him blandly. 

“We do not give addresses, sir,” he explained, “unless 
at the expressed wish of our clients. If you leave a tele- 
gram here, I will send it up to Mrs. Gardner’s rooms to 
be forwarded.” 

Tavernake scribbled one out, begging for news of her 
return, added his address and left the place. Then he 
wandered aimlessly about the streets. There seemed 
something flat about the morning, some aftermath of the 


208 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


excitement of the previous night was still stirring in his 
blood. Nevertheless, he pulled himself together with an 
effort, called for a young surveyor whom he had engaged 
to assist him, and spent the rest of the day out upon the 
hill. Religiously he kept his thoughts turned upon his 
work until the twilight came. Then he hurried home to 
meet the disappointment which he had more than half 
anticipated. There was no telegram for him! He ate 
his dinner and sat with folded arms, looking out into the 
street. Still no telegram! The restlessness came back 
once more. Soon after ten o’clock it became unbearable. 
He found himself longing for company, the loneliness of 
his little room since the departure of Beatrice had never 
seemed so real a thing. He stood it as long as he could 
and then, catching up his hat and stick, he set his face 
eastwards, walking vigorously, and with frequent glances 
at the clocks he passed. 

A few minutes past eleven o’clock, he found himself 
once more in that dark thoroughfare at the back of the 
theatre. The lamp over the stage-door was flickering in 
the same uncertain manner, the same motor-cars were 
there, the same crowd of young men, except that each 
night they seemed to grow larger. This time he had a 
few minutes only to wait. Beatrice came out among the 
earliest. At the sight of her he was suddenly conscious 
that he had, after all, no excuse for coming, that she 
would probably cross-examine him about Elizabeth, 
would probably guess the secret of his torments. He 
shrank back, but he was a moment too late for she had 
seen him. With a few words of excuse to the others with 
whom she was talking, she picked up her skirts and came 
swiftly across the muddy street. Tavernake had no 
time to escape. He remained there until she came, but 


A PLEASANT REUNION 209 

his cheeks were hot, and he had an uncomfortable feeling 
that his presence, that their meeting like this, was an em- 
barrassment to both of them. 

“My dear Leonard,” she exclaimed, “why do you hide 
over there?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered simply. 

She laughed. 

“It looks as though you didn’t want to see me,” she 
remarked. “If you did n’t, why are you here?” 

“I suppose I did want to see you,” he replied. “Any- 
how, I was lonely. I wanted to talk to some one. I 
walked all the way up here from Chelsea.” 

“You have something to tell me?” she suggested. 

“There was something,” he admitted. “I thought 
perhaps you ought to know. I had supper with your 
father last night. We talked about you.” 

She started as though he had struck her; her face was 
suddenly pale and anxious. 

“Are you serious, Leonard?” she asked. “My father?” 

He nodded. 

“I am sorry,” he said. “I ought not to have blun- 
dered it out like that. I forgot that you — you were not 
seeing anything of him.” 

“How did you meet him?” 

“By accident,” he answered. “I was sitting alone up 
in the balcony at Imano’s, and he wanted my table be- 
cause he could see you from there, so we shared it, and 
then we began talking. I knew who he was,, of course; I 
had seen him in your sister’s room. He told me that he 
had engaged the table for every night this week.” 

She looked across the road. 

“I can’t go out with those people now,” she declared, 
“Wait here for me.” 


210 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

She went back to her friends and talked to them for a 
moment or two. Tavernake could hear Grier’s protesting 
voice and Beatrice’s light laugh. Evidently they were 
trying uselessly to persuade her to change her mind. 
Soon she came back to him. 

“I am sorry,” he said reluctantly. “I am afraid that I 
have spoiled your evening.” 

“Don’t be foolish, please,” she replied taking his arm. 
“Do you believe that my father will be up in the balcony 
at Imano’s to-night?” 

Tavernake nodded. 

“He told me so.” 

“We will go and sit up there,” she decided. “He 
knows where I am to be found now so it does n’t matter. 
I should like to see him.” 

They walked off together. Though she was evidently 
absent and distressed, Tavernake felt once more that 
sense of pleasant companionship which her near presence 
always brought him. 

“There is something else I must ask you,” she began 
presently. “I want to know if you have seen Pritchard 
lately.” 

“I was with him last night,” Tavernake answered. 

She shivered. 

“He was asking questions?” 

“Not about you,” Tavernake assured her quickly. 
“It is your sister in whom he is interested.” 

Beatrice nodded, but she seemed very little relieved. 
Tavernake could see that the old look of fear was back 
in her face. 

“I am sorry, Beatrice,” he said, regretfully. “I seem 
just now to be always bringing you reminiscences of the 
people whom it terrifies you to hear about.” 


2II 


A PLEASANT REUNION 

She shook her head. 

“It isn’t your fault, Leonard,” she declared, “only 
it is rather strange that you should be mixed up with 
them in any way, is n’t it? I suppose some day you ’ll 
find out everything about me. Perhaps you’ll be sorry 
then that you ever even called yourself my brother.” 

“Don’t be foolish,” he answered, brusquely. 

She patted his hand. 

“Is the speculation going all right?” she asked. 

“I am hoping to get the money together this week,” he 
replied. “If I get it, I shall be well off in a year, rich in 
five years.” 

“There is just a doubt about your getting it, then?” 
she inquired. 

“Just a doubt,” he admitted. “I have a solicitor who 
is doing his best to raise a loan, but I have not heard from 
him for two days. Then I have also a friend who has 
promised it to me, a friend upon whom I am not quite 
sure if I can rely.” 

They turned into the Strand. 

“Tell me about my father, Leonard,” she begged. 

He hesitated; it was hard to know exactly how to 
speak of the professor. 

“Perhaps if you have talked with him at all,” she went 
on, “it will help you to understand one of the difficulties 
I had to face in life.” 

“He is, I should imagine, a little weak,” Tavernake 
suggested, hesitatingly. 

“Very,” she answered. “My mother left him in my 
charge, but I cannot keep him.” 

“Your sister — ” he began. 

She nodded. 

“My sister has more influence than I. She makes life 
easier for him.” 


212 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


They reached the restaurant and made their way up- 
stairs. Tavernake appropriated the same table and once 
more the head waiter protested. 

“If the gentleman comes again to-night,” Tavernake 
said, “you will find that he will be only too glad to have 
supper with us.” 

Then the professor came. He made his usual somewhat 
theatrical entrance, carrying his broad-brimmed hat in 
his hand, brandishing his silver-topped cane. When he 
saw Tavernake and Beatrice, he stopped short. Then 
he held out both hands, which Beatrice immediately 
seized. There were tears in his eyes, tears running down 
his cheeks. He sat down heavily in the chair which 
Tavernake was holding for him. 

“Beatrice,” he exclaimed, “why, this is most affecting! 
You have come here to have supper with your old father. 
You trust me, then? ” 

“Absolutely,” she replied, still clasping his hands. 
“If you give me away to Elizabeth, it will be the end. 
The next time I shall never be found.” 

“For some days,” he assured her, “ I have known exactly 
where you were to be found. I have never spoken of it. 
You are safe. My meals up here,” he added, with a little 
sigh, “have been sad feasts. To-night we will be cheer- 
ful. Some quails, I think, quails and some Clicquot for 
you, my dear. You need it. Ah, this is a happiness 
indeed!” 

“You know Mr. Tavernake, father,” she remarked, 
after he had given a somewhat lengthy order to the waiter. 

“I met and talked with Mr. Tavernake here the other 
night,” the professor admitted, with condescension. 

“Mr. Tavernake was very good to me at a time when 
I needed help,” Beatrice told him. 


213 


A PLEASANT REUNION 

The professor grasped Tavernake's hands. 

“You were good to my child/* he said, “you were good 
to me. Waiter, three cocktails immediately,” he ordered, 
turning round. “ I must drink your health, Mr. Tavernake 
— I must drink your health at once.” 

Tavernake leaned forward towards Beatrice. 

“I wonder,” he suggested, “whether you would not 
rather be alone with your father.’* 

She shook her head. 

“You know so much,” she replied, “and it really does n’t 
seem to matter. Tell me, father, how do you spend your 
time?” 

“I must confess, dear,” the professor said, “that I have 
little to do. Your sister Elizabeth is quite generous.” 

Beatrice sat back in her chair as though she had been 
struck. 

“Father,” she exclaimed, “listen! You are living on 
that money! Doesn’t it seem terrible to you? Oh, how 
can you do it ! ” 

The professor looked at his daughter with an expres- 
sion of pained surprise. 

“My dear,” he explained, “your sister Elizabeth has 
always been the moneyed one of the family. She has 
brains and I trust her. It is not for me to inquire as to 
the source of the comforts she provides for me. I feel 
myself entitled to receive them, and so I accept.” 

“But, father,” she went on, “can’t you see — don’t 
you know that it ’s his money — Wenham’s? ” 

“It is not a matter, this, my child,” the professor ob- 
served, sharply, “ which we can discuss before strangers. 
Some day we will speak of it, you and I.” 

“Has he — been heard of?” she asked, in a whisper. 

The professor frowned. 


214 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“A hot-tempered young man, my dear,” he declared 
uneasily, “a hot tempered young man, indeed. Elizabeth 
gives me to understand that it was just an ordinary quar- 
rel and away he went.” 

Beatrice was white to the lips. 

“An ordinary quarrel!” she muttered. 

She sat quite still. Tavernake unconsciously found 
himself watching her. There were things in her eyes 
which frightened him. It seemed as though she were 
looking out of the gay little restaurant, with its lights and 
music and air of comfort, out into some distant quarter 
of the world, some other and very different place. She 
was living through something which chilled her heart, 
something terrifying. Tavernake saw those things in 
her face and his eyes spelt them out mercilessly. 

“Father,” she whispered, leaning towards him, “do 
you believe what you have just been saying to me.?” 

It was the professor’s turn to be disturbed. He con- 
cealed his discomfiture, however, with a gesture of annoy- 
ance. 

“That is scarcely a proper question, Beatrice,” he 
answered sharply. “Ah,” he added, with more geniality, 
“the cocktails! My young friend Tavernake, I drink 
to our better acquaintance! You are English, as I can 
see, a real Britisher. Some day you must come out to 
our own great country — my daughter, of course, has 
told you that we are Americans. A great country, sir, — 
the greatest I have ever lived in — room to breathe, 
room to grow, room for a young man like you to plant 
his ambitions and watch them blossom. To our better 
acquaintance, Mr. Tavernake, and may we meet some 
day in the United States!” 

Tavernake drank the first cocktail in his life and wiped 


A PLEASANT REUNION 215 

the tears from his eyes. The professor found safety in 
conversation. 

“You know/* he went on, “that I am a man of science. 
Physiognomy delights me. Men and women as I meet 
them represent to me varying types of humanity, all 
interesting, all appealing to my peculiar love of the science 
of psychology. You, my dear Mr. Tavernake, if I may 
venture to be so personal, represent to me, as you sit 
there, the exact prototype of the young working English- 
man. You are, I should judge, thorough, dogmatic, 
narrow, persistent, industrious, and bound to be success- 
ful according to the scope and nature of your ambitions. 
In this country you will never develop. In my country, 
sir, we should make a colossus of you. We should teach 
you not to be content with small things; we should raise 
your hand which you yourself kept to your side, and we 
should point your finger to the skies. Waiter,” he added, 
turning abruptly round, “ if the quails are not yet ready 
I will take another of these excellent cocktails.” 

Tavernake was embarrassed. He saw that Beatrice 
was anxious to talk to her father; he saw, also, that her 
father was determined not to talk to her. With a little 
sigh, however, she resigned herself to the inevitable. 

“I have lectured, sir,’* the professor continued, “in 
most of the cities of the United States, upon the human 
race. The tendencies of every unit of the human race 
are my peculiar study. When I speak to you of phrenology, 
sir, you smile, and you think, perhaps, of a man who sits 
in a back room and takes your shilling for feeling the 
bumps of your head. I am not of this order of scientific 
men, sir. I have diplomas from every university worth 
mentioning. I blend the sciences which treat with the 
human race. I know something of all of them. Char- 


2i6 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 


acter reading to me is at once a passion and a science. 
Leave me alone with a man or a woman for five minutes, 
paint me a map of Life, and I will set the signposts along 
which that person will travel, and I shall not miss one.” 

“You are doing no work over here, father, are you?” 
Beatrice asked. 

“None, my dear,” he answered, with a faint note of 
regret in his tone. “Your sister Elizabeth seemed scarcely 
to desire it. Her movements are very uncertain and she 
likes to have me constantly at hand. My daughter Eliza- 
beth,” he continued, turning to Tavernake, “is a very 
beautiful young woman, left in my charge under peculiar 
circumstances. I feel it my duty, therefore, to be con- 
stantly at hand.” 

Again there was a flash of that strange look in the girl’s 
face. She leaned forward, but her father declined to meet 
her gaze. 

“May I ask one or two personal questions?” she fal- 
tered. “Remember, I have not seen or heard anything 
from either of you for seven months.” 

“By all means, my dear,” the professor declared. 
“Your sister, I am glad to say, is well. I myself am as 
you see me. We have had a pleasant time and we have 
met some dear old friends from the other side. Our 
greatest trouble is that you are temporarily lost to us.” 

“Elizabeth does n’t guess — ” 

“My child,” the professor interrupted, “I have been 
loyal to you. If Elizabeth knew that I could tell her at 
any moment your exact whereabouts, I think that she 
would be more angry with me than ever she has been in 
her life, and, my dear,” he added, “you know, when 
Elizabeth is angry, things are apt to be unpleasant. But 
I have been dumb. I have not spoken, nor shall I. Yet,” 


A PLEASANT REUNION 


217 

the professor went on, “you must not think, Beatrice, 
that because I yield to your whim in this matter I recog- 
nize any sufficient cause why you should voluntarily es- 
trange yourself from those whose right and privilege it 
is to look after you. You are able, I am glad to see, to 
make your way in the world. I have attended the Atlas 
Theatre, and I am glad to see that you have lost none 
of your old skill in the song and dance. You are deservedly 
popular there. Soon, I have no doubt, you will aspire 
to more important parts. Still, my dear child,” the 
professor continued, disposing of his second cocktail, 
“I see no reason why your very laudable desire to remain 
independent should be incompatible with a life under 
your sister’s roof and my protection. Mr. Tavernake 
here, with his British instincts, will, I am sure, agree with 
me that it is not well for a young lady — my own daughter, 
sir, but I may say it — of considerable personal attractions, 
to live alone or under the chaperonage merely of these 
other young ladies of the theatre.” 

“I think,” Tavernake said, “that your daughter must 
have very strong reasons for preferring to live alone.” 

“Imaginary ones, my dear sir,” the professor assured 
him, — “ altogether imaginary. The quails at last ! And 
the Clicquot! Now this is really a delightful little meet- 
ing. I drink to its repetition. This is indeed a treat for 
me. Beatrice, my love to you! Mr. Tavernake, my best 
respects! The only vintage, sir,” he concluded, setting 
down his empty glass appreciatively. 

“To go back to what you were saying just now,” Taver- 
nake remarked, “I quite agree with you about Beatrice’s 
living alone. I am very anxious for her to marry me.” 

The professor set down his knife and fork. His appear- 
ance was one of ponderous theatricality. 


2i8 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 


“Sir,” he declared, ‘‘this is indeed a most momentous 
statement. Am I to take it as a serious offer for my 
daughter’s hand?” 

Beatrice leaned over and laid her fingers upon his. 

“Father,” she said, “it doesn’t matter please. I am 
not willing to marry Mr. Tavernake.” 

The professor looked from one to the other and coughed. 

“Are Mr. Tavernake’s means,” he asked, “of sufficient 
importance to warrant his entering into matrimony?” 

“ I have no money at all to speak of,” Tavernake 
answered. “That really isn’t important. I shall very 
soon make all that your daughter can spend.” 

“I agree with my daughter, sir,” the professor declared. 
“ The subject might well be left until such time as you 
have improved your position. We will dismiss it, there- 
fore, — dismiss it at once. We will talk — ” 

“Father,” Beatrice interrupted, “let us talk about 
yourself. Don’t you think you would be more contented, 
happier, if you were to try to arrange for a few — a few 
demonstrations or lectures over here, as you at first in- 
tended? I know that you must find having nothing to 
do such a strain upon you,” she added. 

It was perhaps by accident that her eyes were fixed 
upon the glass which the professor was carrying to his 
lips. He set it down at once. 

“ My child,” he said, in a low tone, “ I understand you.” 

“No, no,” she insisted, “I didn’t mean that, but you 
are always better when you are working. A man like 
you,” she went on, a httle wistfully, “should not waste 
his talents.” 

He sighed. 

“You are perhaps right, my child,” he admitted. “I 
will go and see my agents to-morrow. Up till now,” he 


A PLEASANT REUNION 


219 

went on, “I have refused all offers. I have felt that Eliz- 
abeth, the care of Elizabeth in her peculiar position, de- 
manded my whole attention. Perhaps you are right. 
Perhaps I have over-estimated the necessity of being con- 
stantly at her right hand. She is a very clever woman — 
Elizabeth,” he concluded, “ very clever indeed.” 

“Where is she now, father?” Beatrice asked. 

“ She motored into the country early this morning with 
some friends,” the professor said. “They went to a 
party last night with Walter Crease, London corres- 
pondent to the New York Gazette^'' he explained, turning 
a little away from Tavernake. “They were all home very 
late, I understand, and Elizabeth complained of a headache 
this morning. Personally, I regret to say that I was not 
up when they left.” 

Beatrice leaned quite close to her father. 

“Do you see anything of the man Pritchard?” she 
inquired. 

The professor was suddenly flabby. He set down his 
glass, spilling half its contents. He stole a quick glance at 
Tavernake. 

“My child,” he exclaimed, “ you ought to consider my 
nerves! You know very well that the sudden mention 
of any one whom I dislike so intensely is bad for me. I 
am surprised at you, Beatrice. You show a culpable lack 
of consideration for my infirmities.” 

“I am sorry, father,” she whispered, “but is he here?” 

“He is,” the professor admitted. “Between ourselves,” 
he added, a white, scared look upon his pale face, “he is 
spoiling my whole peace of mind. My enjoyment of the 
comforts which Elizabeth is able to provide for me is 
interfered with by that man’s constant presence. He 
seldom speaks, and yet he seems always to be watching. 


220 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


I do not trust him, Beatrice. I am a judge of men and I 
tell you that I do not trust him.” 

“I wish that Elizabeth would go away,” Beatrice said 
in a low tone. “Of course, I have no right — to say 
things. Nothing serious has perhaps ever happened. And 
yet — and yet, for her own sake, I do not think that she 
should stay here in London with Pritchard close at hand.” 

The professor raised his glass with shaking fingers. 

“Elizabeth knows what is best,” he declared, “I am 
sure that Elizabeth knows what is best, but I, too, am 
beginning to wish that she would go away. Last night we 
met him at Walter Crease’s.” 

Once more he turned a little nervously towards Taver- 
nake, who was looking down into the body of the res- 
taurant with immovable face. 

“We tried to persuade him then to go away. He is 
really in rather a dangerous position here. Jimmy Post 
has sworn that he will not be taken back to New York, 
and there are one or tw^o others — a pretty desperate 
crew. We tried last night to reason with Pritchard.” 

“It was no good?” she whispered. 

“No good at all,” the professor answered, drily. “Per- 
haps, if we had not been interrupted, we might have 
convinced him.” 

“Tell me about it,” she begged. 

The professor shook his head. Tavernake still had 
that air of paying no attention whatever to their conver- 
sation. 

“It is not for you to know about, my dear,” he con- 
cluded. “You have chosen very wisely to keep out of 
these matters. Elizabeth has such wonderful courage. 
My own nerve, I regret to say, is not quite what it was. 
Waiter, I will take a liqueur of the old brandy in a large 
glass.” 


A PLEASANT REUNION 


221 


The brandy was brought, but the professor seemed 
haunted by memories and his spirits never wholly returned. 
Not until the lights were turned down and Tavernake 
had paid the bill, did he partially recover his former 
manner. 

“Dear child,’’ he said, as they stood up together, “I 
cannot tell you what the pleasure has been of this brief 
reunion.” 

She rested her fingers upon his shoulders and looked 
up into his face. 

“Father,” she begged, softly, “come to me. I can 
keep you, if you don’t mind for a short time being poor. 
You shall have all my salary except just enough for my 
clothes, and anything will do for me to wear. I will try 
so hard to make you comfortable.” 

He looked at her with an air of offended dignity. 

“My child,” he replied, “you must not talk to me like 
that. If I did not feel that my duty lay with Elizabeth, 
I should insist upon your coming to me, and under those 
conditions it would be I who should provide, not you. 
But for the moment I cannot leave your elder sister 
altogether. She needs me.” 

Beatrice turned away a little sadly. They all three 
descended the stairs. 

“I shall leave our young friend, Mr. Tavernake, to 
escort you to your home,” the professor announced. “I 
myself shall telephone to see if Elizabeth has returned. 
If she is still away, I shall spend an hour or two, I think, 
with my friends at the Blue Room Club. Beatrice, this 
has been a joy to me, a joy soon, I hope, to be repeated.” 

He took both her hands. She smiled at him with an 
attempt at cheerfulness. 

“Good-night, father!” she said. 


222 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“And to you, sir, also, good-night!” the professor added, 
taking Tavernake’s hand and holding it for a minute in 
his, while he looked impressively in his face. “I will 
not say too much, but I will say this : so much as I have 
seen of you, I like. Good-night!” 

He turned and strode away. Both Beatrice and Taver- 
nake watched him until he disappeared. Then, with a 
sigh, she picked up her skirts with her right hand, and 
took Tavernake’s arm. 

“Do you mind walking home?” she asked. “My 
head aches.” 

Tavernake looked for a moment wistfully across the 
road toward the Milan Court. Beatrice’s hand, however, 
only held his arm the tighter. 

“I am going to make you come with me every step of 
the way,” she declared, “so you can just as well make 
the best of it. Afterwards — ” 

“What about afterwards?” he interrupted. 

“Afterwards,” she continued, with decision, “you are 
to go straight home! ” 


CHAPTER XXI 


SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE 

Tavernake, in response to a somewhat urgent message, 
walked into his solicitor’s office almost as soon as they 
opened on the following morning. The junior partner 
of the firm, who took an interest in him, and was anxious, 
indeed, to invest a small amount in the Marston Rise 
Building Company, received him cordially but with 
some concern. 

“Look here, Tavernake,” he said, “I thought I’d 
better write a line and ask you to come down. You 
have n’t forgotten, have you, that our option of purchase 
lasts only three days longer? ” 

Tavernake nodded. 

“Well, what of it?” he asked. 

“It’s just as well that you should understand the 
situation,” the lawyer continued. “Your old people are 
hard upon our heels in this matter, and there will be no 
chance of any extension — not even for an hour. Mr. 
Dowling has already put in an offer a thousand pounds 
better than yours ; I heard that incidentally yesterday 
afternoon; so you may be sure that the second your 
option has legally expired, the thing will be off altogether 
so far as you’re concerned.” 

“That’s all very well,” Tavernake remarked, “but 
what about the plots that already belong to me?” 

“They have some sort of scheme for leaving those 


224 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

high and dry,” the solicitor explained. “You see, the 
drainage and lighting will be largely influenced by the 
purchaser of the whole estate. If Dowling gets it, he 
means to treat your plots so that they will become prac- 
tically valueless. It ’s rather a mean sort of thing, but 
then he’s a mean little man.” 

Tavernake nodded. 

“Well,” he announced, “I was coming to see you, 
anyhow, this morning, to talk to you about the money.” 

“Your friend isn’t backing out?” the lawyer asked, 
quickly. 

“My friend has not said anything about backing out 
yet,” Tavernake replied, “but circumstances have arisen 
during the last few days which have altered my own 
views as to the expediency of business relations with this 
person. I have n’t any reason to suppose that the money 
won’t be forthcoming, but if I could get it from any 
other source, I should prefer it.” 

The solicitor looked blank. 

“Of course,” he said, “I ’ll do what I can, if you like, 
but I may as well tell you at once that I don’t think I 
should have a ghost of a chance of raising the whole 
amount.” 

“I suppose,” Tavernake inquired, thoughtfully, “your 
firm couldn’t do anything?” 

“We could do something, certainly,” the solicitor 
answered, “on account of our own clients. We might, 
perhaps, manage up to five thousand pounds. That 
would still leave us wanting seven, however, and I 
scarcely see where we could get it.” 

Tavernake was silent for a few moments. 

“You have n’t quarreled with your friend, have you?” 
the solicitor asked. 


SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE 225 

“No, there has been no quarrel,” Tavernake replied. 
“I have another reason.” 

“If I were you, I’d try and forget it,” his friend advised. 
“To tell you the truth, I have been feeling rather anxious 
about this affair. It’s a big thing, you know, and the 
profit is as sure as the dividend on Consols. I should 
hate to have that little bounder Dowling get in and scoop 
it up.” 

“It’s a fine investment,” admitted Tavernake, “and, 
as you say, there is n’t the slightest risk. That ’s why I 
was hoping you might have been able to manage it 
without my calling upon my friend.” 

Mr. Martin shook his head. 

“ It is n’t so easy to convince other people. All the 
same, I don’t want to get left. If you’ll take my advice, 
you ’ll go and call on your friend at once, and see ex- 
actly how matters stand. If everything’s O. K. and you 
can induce him to part a few hours before it is absolutely 
necessary, I must confess that it would take a load off 
my mind. I don’t like these affairs that have to be con- 
cluded at the last possible moment.” I 

“Well,” Tavernake agreed, “I must try what I can do, 
then. There is nothing else fresh, I suppose?” 

“Nothing,” the solicitor answered. “Come back, if 
you can make any definite arrangement, or telephone. 
The matter is really bothering me a little. I don’t want 
to have the other people slip in now.” . . . 

Tavernake, instead of obeying his first impulse and 
making his way direct to the Milan Court, walked to 
the flat in Kingsway, climbed up the stone steps, and 
asked for Beatrice. She met him at her own door, fully 
dressed. 

“ My dear Leonard ! ” she exclaimed, in surprise, “ What 
an early caller!” 


^226 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“I want a few words with you,” he said. “Can you 
spare me five minutes?” 

“You must walk with me to the theatre,” she replied, 
“I am just off to rehearsal.” 

They descended the stairs together. 

“I have something to tell you,” Tavernake began, 
“something to tell you which you won’t like to hear.” 

“Something which I won’t like to hear,” she repeated, 
fearfully. “Go on, Leonard. It can’t be worse than it 
sounds.” 

“I don’t know why I’ve come to tell you,” he went on. 
“I never meant to. It came into my mind all of a sudden 
and I felt that I must. It has to do with your sister and 
the Marston Rise affair.” 

“My sister and the Marston Rise affair!” Beatrice 
exclaimed, incredulously. 

Then a sudden light broke in upon her. She stopped 
short and clutched at his hand. 

“You don’t mean that it was Elizabeth who was going 
to find you the money?” she cried. 

“I do,” he answered. “She offered it of her own 
accord. I do not know why I talked to her of my own 
affairs, but she led me on to speak of them. Your sister 
is a wonderful person,” he continued, dropping his voice. 
“I don’t know why, but she made me talk as no one else 
has ever made me talk before. I simply had to tell her 
things. Then, when I had finished, she showed me her 
bank-books and suggested that she should invest some of 
her money in the Rise.” 

“But do you mean to tell me,” Beatrice persisted, 
“that it is her money upon which you are relying for 
this purchase?” 

Tavernake nodded. 


SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE 227 

“You see,” he explained, “Mr. Dowling dropped upon 
us before I was prepared. As soon as he found out, he 
went to the owners of the estate and made them a bid 
for it. The consequence was that they shortened my 
option and gave me very little chance indeed to find the 
money. When your sister offered it, it certainly seemed 
a wonderful stroke of fortune. I could give her eight or 
ten per cent, whereas she would only get four anywhere 
else, and I should make a profit for myself of over ten 
thousand pounds, which I cannot do unless I find the 
money to buy the estate.” 

“But you mustn’t touch that money, you mustn’t 
have anything to do with it!” Beatrice exclaimed, walk- 
ing very fast and looking straight ahead. “You don’t 
understand. How should you?” 

“Do you mean that the money was stolen?” Taver- 
nake asked, after a moment’s pause. 

“No, not stolen,” Beatrice replied, “but it comes — 
oh! I can’t tell you, only Elizabeth has no right to it. 
My own sister! It is all too awful!” 

“Do you think that she has come by this money dis- 
honestly?” 

“I am not sure,” Beatrice murmured. “There are 
worse things, more terrible things even than theft.” 

The practical side of Tavernake’s nature was very 
much to the fore that morning. He began to wonder 
whether women, after all, strange and fascinating creatures 
though they were, possessed judgment which could be 
relied upon — whether they were not swayed too much 
by sentiment. 

“Beatrice,” he said, “you must understand this. I 
have no time to raise the money elsewhere. If I don’t 
get it from your sister, supposing she is still willing to 


228 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


let me have it, my chance has gone. I shall have to take 
a situation in some one else’s office as a clerk — probably 
not so good a place as I held at Dowling & Spence’s. On 
the other hand, the use of that money for a very short 
time would be the start of my career. All that you say 
is so vague. Why need I know anything about it? I 
met your sister in the ordinary way of business and she 
has made an ordinary business proposition to me, one by 
which she will be, incidentally, very greatly benefited. 
I never thought of telling you this at all, but when the 
time came I hated to go and draw that money from your 
sister without having said anything to you. So I came 
this morning, but I want you, if you possibly can, to 
look at the matter from my point of view.” 

She was silent for several moments. Then she glanced 
at him curiously. 

“Wffiy on earth,” she asked, “should my sister make 
this offer to you? She is n’t a fool. She does n’t usually 
trust strangers.” 

“She trusted me, apparently,” Tavernake answered. 

“Can you understand why?” Beatrice demanded. 

“I think that I can,” he replied. “If one can rely 
upon one’s perception, she is surrounded by people whom 
she might find agreeable companions but whom she is 
scarcely likely to have much confidence in. Perhaps she 
realized that I was n’t like them.” 

“And you want very much to take this money?” she 
said, half to herself. 

“I want to very much indeed,” Tavernake admitted. 
“I was on my way to see her this morning and to ask her 
to let me have it a day or two before the time, but I felt, 
somehow, that there seemed to be a certain amount of 
deceit in going to her and taking it without saying a 


SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE 229 

word to you. I felt that I had to come here first. But 
Beatrice, don’t ask me to give it up. It means such a 
long time before I can move again. It’s the first step 
that ’s so difficult, and I must — I must make a start. 
It’s such a chance, this. I have spent so many hours 
thinking about it. I have planned and worked and 
sketched it all out as no one else could do. I must have 
that money.” 

They walked on in silence until they reached the stage 
door. Beatrice was thinking of her companion as she had 
seen him so often, poring over his plans, busy with ruler 
and india-rubber, absolutely absorbed in the interest of 
his task. She remembered the first time he had talked 
about this scheme of his, how his whole face had changed, 
the almost passionate interest with which he had worked 
the thing out even to its smallest details. She realized 
how great a part of his life the thing had become, what 
a terrible blow it would be to him to have to abandon it. 
She turned and faced him. 

“Leonard,” she said, “perhaps, after all, you are right. 
Perhaps I give way too much to what, after all, is only a 
sentimental feeling. I am thankful that you came and 
told me; I shall always be thankful for that. Take the 
money, but pay it back as soon as you can.” 

“I shall do that,” he answered. “I shall do that — 
you may rely upon it.” 

She laid her hand upon his arm. 

“Leonard,” she begged, “I know that Elizabeth is very 
beautiful and very fascinating, and I don’t wonder that 
you like to go and see her, but I want to ask you to 
promise me one thing.” 

He felt as though he were suddenly turned into stone. 
It was not possible — it could not be possible that she 
had guessed his secret! 


230 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Well?” he demanded. 

“Don’t let her introduce you to her friends; don’t 
spend too much time there,” she continued. “Elizabeth 
is my sister and I don’t — really I don’t want to say 
anything that does n’t sound kind, but her friends are 
not fit people for you to know, and Elizabeth — well — 
she has n’t very much heart.” 

He was silent for several moments. 

“How did you know I liked going to see your sister? ” 
he asked, abruptly. 

She smiled. 

“My dear Leonard,” she said, “you are not very clever 
at hiding your feelings. When you came to see me the 
other day, do you imagine I believed for a single moment 
that you asked me to marry you simply because you 
cared? I think, Leonard, that it was because you were 
afraid, you were afraid of something coming into your 
life so big, so terrifying, that you were ready to clutch 
at the easiest chance of safety.” 

“Beatrice, this is absurd!” he exclaimed. 

She shook her head. 

“No, it is n’t that,” she declared. “Do you know, my 
dear Leonard, what there was about you from the very 
first which attracted me?” 

“No,” he answered. 

“ It was your honesty,” she continued. “ You remember 
that night upon the roof at Blenheim House? You were 
going to tell a lie for me, and I know how you hated it. 
You love the truth, you are truthful naturally; I would 
rely upon you wherever I was. I know that you would 
keep your word, I know that you would be honest. A 
woman loves to feel that about a man — she loves it — 
and I don’t want you to be brought near the people who 


SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE 


231 

sneer at honesty and all good things. I don’t want you 
to hear their point of view. You may be simple and 
commonplace in some respects; I want you to stay just 
as you are. Do you understand 

“I understand,” Tavernake replied gravely. 

A call boy shouted her name down the stone passage. 
She patted him on the shoulder and turned away. 

“Run along now and get the money,” she said. “Come 
and see me when it’s all over.” 

Tavernake left her with a long breath of relief and 
made his way towards the Strand. At the corner of 
Wellington Street he came face to face with Pritchard. 
They stopped at once. There seemed to be something 
embarrassing about this meeting. Pritchard patted him 
familiarly on the shoulder. 

“How goes it, old man?” he asked. 

“I am all right,” Tavernake answered, somewhat awk- 
wardly. “How are you?” 

“ I guess I ’d be the better for a drink,” Pritchard 
declared. “Come along. Pretty well done up the other 
night, weren’t we? We’ll step into the American Bar 
here and try a gin fizz.” 

They found themselves presently perched upon two 
high stools in a deserted corner of the bar to which Pritch- 
ard had led the way. Tavernake sipped his drink tenta- 
tively. 

“I should like,” he said, “to ask you a question or 
two about Wednesday night.” 

Pritchard nodded. 

“Go right ahead,” he invited. 

“You seem to take the whole affair as a sort of joke,” 
Tavernake remarked. 

“Well, isn’t that what it was?” the detective asked, 
smiling. ^ ^ 


232 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Tavernake shrugged his shoulders. 

“There did n’t seem to me to be much joke about it!” 
he exclaimed. 

Pritchard laughed gayly. 

“You are not used to Americans, my young friend,” 
he said. “ Over on this side you are all so fearfully literal. 
You are not seriously supposing that they meant to dose 
me with that stuff the other night, eh?” 

“I never thought that there was any doubt about it 
at all,” Tavernake declared deliberately. 

Pritchard stroked his moustache meditatively. 

“Well,” he remarked, “you are certainly green, and 
yet I don’t know why you should n’t be. Americans are 
always up to games of that sort. I am not saying 
that they did n’t mean to give me a scare, if they could, 
or that they would n’t have been glad to get a few words 
of information out of me, or a paper or two that I keep 
pretty safely locked up. It would have been a better 
joke on me then. But as for the rest, as for really trying to 
make me take that stuff, of course, that was all bunkum.” 

Tavernake sat quite still in his chair for several minutes. 

“Will you take another gin fizz, Mr. Pritchard?” he 
asked. 

“Why not?” 

Tavernake gave the order. He sat on his stool whistling 
softly to himself. 

“Then I suppose,” he said at last, “I must have looked 
a pretty sort of an ass coming through the wall like a 
madman. ” 

Pritchard shook his head. 

“You looked just about what you were,” he answered, 

“a d d good sort. I ’m not playing up to you that it 

was all pretense. You can never trust that gang. The 


SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE 233 

blackguard outside was in earnest, anyway. After all, 
you know, they wouldn’t miss me if I were to drop 
quietly out. There ’s no one else they ’re quite so much 
afraid of. There ’s no one else knows quite as much 
about them.” 

“Well, we’ll let it go at that,” Tavernake declared. 
“You know so much of all these people, though, that I 
rather wish you ’d tell me something I want very much 
to know.” 

“It’s by telling nothing,” the detective replied quickly, 
“that I know as much as I do. Just one cocktail, eh?” 

Tavernake shook his head. 

“I drank my first cocktail last night,” he remarked. 
“I had supper with the professor and his daughter.” 

“Not Elizabeth?” Pritchard asked swiftly. 

Tavernake shook his head. 

“With Miss Beatrice,” he answered. 

Pritchard set down his glass. 

“Say, Tavernake,” he inquired, “you are friendly 
with that young lady. Miss Beatrice, aren’t you?” 

“I certainly am,” Tavernake answered. “I have a 
very great regard for her.” 

“Then I can tell you how to do her a good turn,” 
Pritchard continued, earnestly. “Keep her away from 
that old blackguard. Keep her away from all the gang. 
Believe me, she is looking for trouble by even speaking 
to them.” 

“But the man ’s her father,” Tavernake objected, “and 
he seems fond of her.” 

“Don’t you believe it,” Pritchard went on. “He *s 
fond of nothing and nobody but himself and easy living. 
He ’s soft, mind you, he ’s got plenty of sentiment, he ’ll 
squeeze a tear out of his eye, and all that sort of thing. 


234 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

but he ’d sell his soul, or his daughter’s soul, for a little 
extra comfort. Now Elizabeth does n’t know exactly 
where her sister is, and she dare n’t seem anxious, or go 
around making inquiries. Beatrice has her chance to 
keep away, and I can tell you it will be a thundering 
sight better for her if she does.” 

“Well, I don’t understand it at all,” Tavernake de- 
clared. “I hate mysteries.” 

Pritchard set down his empty glass. 

^ “Look here,” he remarked, “this affair is too serious, 
after all, for us to talk round like a couple of gossips. 
I have given you your warning, and if you ’re wise you ’ll 
remember it.” 

“Tell me this one thing,” Tavernake persisted. “Tell 
me what is the cause of the quarrel between the two? 
Can’t something be done to bring them together again? ” 

Pritchard shook his head. 

“Nothing,” he answered. “As things are at present, 
they are better apart. Coming my way?” 

Tavernake followed him out of the place. Pritchard 
took his arm as he turned down toward the Strand. 

“My young friend,” he said, “here is a word of advice 
for you. The Scriptures say that you cannot serve God 
and mammon. Paraphrase that to the present situation 
and remember that you cannot serve Elizabeth and 
Beatrice.” 

“What then?” Tavernake demanded. 

The detective waited until he had lit the long black 
cigar between his teeth. 

“I guess you ’d better confine your attentions to Bea- 
trice,” he concluded. 


CHAPTER XXII 


DINNER WITH ELIZABETH 

The rest of that day was for Tavernake a period of fever- 
ish anxieties. He received two telegrams from Mr. Martin, 
his solicitor, and he himself was more uneasy than he 
cared to admit. At three o’clock in the afternoon, at 
eight in the evening, and again at eleven o ’clock at night, 
he presented himself at the Milan Court, always with 
the same inquiry. On the last occasion, the hall porter 
had cheering news for him. 

“Mrs. Wenham Gardner returned from the country 
an hour ago, sir,” he announced. “I can send your name 
up now, if you wish to see her.” 

Tavernake was conscious of a sense of immense relief. 
Of course, he had known that she had not really gone 
away for good, but all the same her absence, especially 
after the event of the night before last, was a little dis- 
quieting. 

“My name is Tavernake,” he said. “I do not wish to 
intrude at such an hour, but if she could see me for a 
moment, I should be glad.” 

He sat down and waited patiently. Soon a message 
came that Mr. Tavernake was to go up. He ascended in 
the lift and knocked at the door of her suite. Her maid 
opened it grudgingly. She scarcely took the pains to^ 


236 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

conceal her disapproval of this young man — so ordinary, 
so gauche. Why Madame should waste her time upon 
such a one, she could not imagine! 

“Mrs. Gardner will see you directly,” she told him. 
“Madame is dressing now to go out for supper. She 
will be able to spare you only a few seconds.” 

Tavernake remained alone in the luxurious little sitting- 
room for nearly ten minutes. Then the door of the inner 
room was opened and Elizabeth appeared. Tavernake, 
rising slowly to his feet, looked at her for a moment in 
reluctant but wondering admiration. She was wearing 
an ivory satin gown, without trimming or lace of any 
sort, a gown the fit of which seemed to him almost a 
miracle. Her only jewelry was a long rope of pearls and 
a small tiara. Tavernake had never been brought into 
close contact with any one quite like this. 

She was putting on her gloves as she entered and she 
gave him her left hand. 

“What an extraordinary person you are, Mr. Taver- 
nake!” she exclaimed. “You really do seem to turn up 
at the most astonishing times.” 

“lam very sorry to have intruded upon you to-night,” 
he said. “As regards the last occasion, however, upon 
which I made an unexpected appearance, I make no 
apologies whatever,” he added coolly. 

She laughed softly. She was looking full into his eyes 
and yet he could not tell whether she was angry with 
him or only amused. 

“You were by way of being a little melodramatic, were 
you not?” she remarked. “Still, you were very much 
in earnest, and one forgives a great deal to any one who 
is really in earnest. What do you want with me now? 
I am just going downstairs to supper.” 


DINNER WITH ELIZABETH 


237 

“It is a matter of business/’ Tavernake replied. “I 
have a friend who is a partner with me in the Marston 
Rise building speculation, and he is worried because 
there is some one else in the field wanting to buy the 
property, and the day after to-morrow is our last chance 
of paying over the money.” 

She looked at him as though puzzled. 

“What money.?” 

“The money which you agreed to lend me, or rather to 
invest in our building company,” he reminded her. 

She nodded. 

“Of course! WTiy, I had forgotten all about it for the 
moment. You are going to give me ten per cent interest 
or something splendid, aren’t you? Well, what about 
it? You don’t want to take it away with you now, I 
suppose?” 

“No,” he answered, “it is n’t that. To be honest with 
you, I came to make sure that you had n’t changed your 
mind.” 

“And why should I change my mind?” 

“You might be angry with me,” he said, “for inter- 
fering in your concerns the night before last.” 

“Perhaps I am,” she remarked, indifferently. 

“Do you wish to withdraw from your promise?” he 
asked. 

“I really have n’t thought much about it,” she replied, 
carelessly. “By-the-bye, have you seen Beatrice lately?” 

“We agreed, I think,” he reminded her, “that we 
would not talk about your sister.” 

She looked at him over her shoulder. 

“I do not remember that I agreed to anything of the 
sort,” she declared. “I think it was you who laid down 
the law about that. As a matter of fact, I think that 


238 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 
your silence about her is very unkind. I suppose you 
have seen her.? ” 

“Yes, I have seen her,” Tavernake admitted. 

“She continues to be tragic,” Elizabeth asked, ^‘when- 
ever my name is mentioned?” 

“I should not call it tragic,” Tavernake answered, 
reluctantly. “One gathers, however, that something 
transpired between you before she left, of a serious nature.” 

She looked at him earnestly. 

“Really,” she said, “you are a strange, stolid young 
man. I wonder,” she went on, smihng into his face, 
“are you in love with my sister?” 

Tavernake made no immediate response, only some- 
thing flashed for a moment in his eyes which puzzled her. 

“Why do you look at me like that?” she demanded. 
“You are not angry with me for asking?” 

“No, I am not angry,” he replied. “It isn’t that. 
But you must know — you must see!” 

Then she indeed did see that he was laboring under a 
very great emotion. She leaned towards him, laughing 
softly. 

“Now you are really becoming interesting,” she mur- 
mured. “Tell me — tell me all about it.” 

“I don’t know what love is!” Tavernake declared 
fiercely. “I don’t know what it means to be in love!” 

Again she laughed in his face. 

“Are you so sure?” she whispered. 

She saw the veins stand out upon his temples, watched 
the passion which kept him at first tongue-tied. 

“Sure!” he muttered. “Who can be sure when you 
look like that!” 

He held out his arms. With a swift little backward 
movement she flitted away and leaned against the table. 


DINNER WITH ELIZABETH 


239 


“What a brother-in-law you would make!” she laughed. 
“So steady, so respectable, alas! so serious! Dear Mr. 
Tavernake, I wish you joy. As a matter of fact, you 
and Beatrice are very well suited for one another.” 

The telephone bell rang. She moved over and held the 
receiver to her ear. Her face changed. After the first 
few words to which she listened, it grew dark with anger. 

“You mean to say that Professor Franklin has not 
been in since lunch-time?” she exclaimed. “I left word 
particularly that I should require him to-night. Is Major 
Post there, then? No? Mr. Crease — no? Nor Mr. 
Faulkes? Not one of them! Very well, ring me up 
directly the professor comes in, or any of them.” 

She replaced the receiver with a gesture of annoyance. 
Tavernake was astonished at the alteration in her expres- 
sion. The smile had gone, and with its passing away 
lines had come under her eyes and about her mouth. 
Without a word to him she strode away into her bedroom. 
Tavernake was just wondering whether he should retire, 
when she came back. 

“Listen, Mr. Tavernake,” she said, “how far away 
are your rooms?” 

“Down at Chelsea,” he answered, “about two miles 
and a half.” 

“Take a taxi and drive there,” she commanded, “or 
stop. You will find my car outside. I will telephone 
down to say that you are to use it. Change into your 
evening clothes and come back for me. I want you to 
take me out to supper.” 

He looked at her in amazement. She stamped her 
foot. 

“Don’t stand there hesitating!” she ordered. “Do as 
I say! You don’t expect I am going to help you to buy 


240 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

your wretched property if you refuse me the simplest of 
favors? Hurry, I say! Hurry!” 

“I am really very sorry,” Tavernake interposed, “but 
I do not possess a dress suit. I would go, with pleasure, 
but I have n’t got such a thing.” 

She looked at him for a moment incredulously. Then 
she broke into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. She sat 
down upon the edge of a couch and wiped the tears from 
her eyes. 

“Oh, you strange, you wonderful person!” she ex- 
claimed. “You want to buy an estate and you want to 
borrow twelve thousand pounds, and you know where 
Beatrice is and you won’t tell me, and you are fully 
convinced, because you burst into a house through the 
wall, that you saved poor Pritchard from being poisoned, 
and you don’t possess a dress suit! Never mind, as it 
happens it does n’t matter about the dress suit. You 
shall take me out as you are.” 

Tavernake felt in his pockets and remembered that he 
had only thirty shillings with him. 

“Here, carry my purse,” she said carelessly. “We are 
going downstairs to the smaller restaurant. I have been 
traveling since six o’clock, and I am starving.” 

“But how about my clothes?” Tavernake objected. 
“Will they be all right?” 

“It does n’t matter where we are going,” she answered. 
“You look very well as you are. Come and let me put 
your tie straight.” 

She came close to him and her fingers played for a mo- 
ment with his tie. She was very near to him and she 
laughed deliberately into his face. Tavernake held him- 
self quite stiff and felt foolish. He also felt absurdly happy. 

“There,” she remarked, when she had arranged it to 


DINNER WITH ELIZABETH 


241 

her satisfaction, “you look all right now. I wonder,” 
she added, half to herself, “what you do look like. Some- 
thing Colonial and forceful, I think. Never mind, help 
me on with my cloak and come along. You are a most 
respectable-looking escort, and a very useful one.” 

Although Tavernake was nominally the host, it was 
Elizabeth who selected the table and ordered the supper. 
There were very few other guests in the room, the majority 
being down in the larger restaurant, but among these few 
Tavernake noticed two of the girls from the chorus at 
the Atlas. Elizabeth had chosen a table from which she 
had a view of the door, and she took the seat facing it. 
From the first Tavernake felt certain that she was watch- 
ing for some one. 

“Talk to me now, please, about this speculation,” she 
insisted. “ I should like to know all about it, and whether 
you are sure that I shall get ten per cent for my money.” 

Tavernake was in no way reluctant. It was a safe 
topic for conversation, and one concerning which he had 
plenty to say. But after a time she stopped him. 

“Well,” she said, “I have discovered at any rate one 
subject on which you can be fiuent. Now I have had 
enough of building properties, please, and house building. 
I should like to hear a httle about Beatrice.” 

Tavernake was dumb. 

“I do not wish to talk about Beatrice,” he declared, 
“until I understand the cause of this estrangement be- 
tween you.” 

Her eyes flashed angrily and her laugh sounded forced. 

“Not even talk of her! My dear friend,” she protested, 
“you scarcely repay the confidence I am placing in you! ” 

“You mean the money?” 


242 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Precisely,” she continued. “I trust you, why I do 
not know — I suppose because I am something of a physi- 
ognomist — with twelve thousand pounds of my hard- 
earned savings. You refuse to trust me with even a few 
simple particulars about the life of my own sister. Come, 
I don’t think that things are quite as they should be 
between us.” 

“Do you know where I first met your sister?” Taver- 
nake asked. 

She shook her head pettishly. 

“How should I? You told me nothing.” 

“She was staying in a boarding-house where I lived,” 
Tavernake went on. “I think I told you that but nothing 
else. It was a cheap boarding-house but she had not 
enough money to pay for her meals. She was tired of 
life. She was in a desperate state altogether.” 

“Are you trying to tell me, or rather trying not to tell 
me, that Beatrice was mad enough to think of committing 
suicide?” Elizabeth inquired. 

“She was in the frame of mind when such a step was 
possible,” he answered, gravely. “You remember that 
night when I first saw you in the chemist’s shop across 
the street? She had been very ill that evening, very ill 
indeed. You could see for yourseK the effect meeting 
you had upon her.” 

Elizabeth nodded, and crumbled a little piece of roll 
between her fingers. Then she leaned over the table 
towards Tavernake. 

“She seemed terrified, didn’t she? She hurried you 
away — she seemed afraid.” 

“It was very noticeable,” he admitted. “She was 
terrified. She dragged me out of the place. A few minutes 
later she fainted in the cab.” 


DINNER WITH ELIZABETH 


243 


Elizabeth smiled. 

“Beatrice was always over-sensitive,” she remarked. 
“Any sudden shock unnerved her altogether. Are you 
terrified of me, too, Mr. Tavernake?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered, frankly. “Sometimes 
I think that I am.” 

She laughed softly. 

“Why?” she whispered. 

He looked into her eyes and he felt abject. IIow was 
it possible to sit within a few feet of her and remain sane ! 

“You are so wonderful,” he said, in a low tone, “so 
different from any one else in the world!” 

“You are glad that you met me, then — that you are 
here?” she asked. 

He raised his eyes once more. 

“I don’t know,” he answered simply. “If I really 
believed — if you were always kind like this — but, you 
see, you make two men of me. WHhien I am with you I 
am a fool, your fool, to do as you will with. When I am 
away, some glimmerings of common sense come back, 
and I know.” 

“You know what?” she murmured. 

“That you are not honest,” he added. 

“Mr. Tavernake!” she exclaimed, lifting her head a 
little. 

“ Oh, I don t mean dishonest in the ordinary way ! ” 
he protested, eagerly. “What I mean is that you look 
things which you don’t feel, that you are willing for any 
one who can’t help admiring you very much to believe for 
a moment that you, too, feel more kindly than you really 
do. This is so clumsy,” he broke off, despairingly, “but 
you understand what I mean!” 

“You have an adorable way of making yourself under- 


244 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

stood,” she laughed. “Come, do let us talk sense for a 
minute or two. You say that when you are with me 
you are my slave. Then why is it that you do not bring 
Beatrice here when I beg you to?” 

“I am your slave,” he answered, “in everything that 
has to do with myself and my own actions. In that other 
matter it is for your sister to decide.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Well,” she said, “I suppose I shall be able to endure 
life without her. At any rate, we will talk of something 
else. Tell me, are you not curious to know why I insisted 
upon bringing you here?” 

“Yes,” he admitted, “I am.” 

“Spoken with your usual candor, my dear Briton!” 
she exclaimed. “Well, I will gratify your curiosity. This, 
as you see, is not a popular supping place. A few people 
come in — mostly those who for some reason or other don’t 
feel smart enough for the big restaurants. The people 
from the theatres come in here who have not time to 
change their clothes. As you perceive, the place has a 
distinctly Bohemian flavor.” 

Tavernake looked around. 

“They seem to come in all sorts of clothes,” he remarked. 
“I am glad.” 

“There is a man now in London,” Elizabeth continued, 
“whom I am just as anxious to see as I am to find my 
sister. I believe that this is the most likely place to find 
him. That is why I have come. My father was to have 
been here to take me, but as you heard he has gone out 
somewhere and not returned. None of my other friends 
were available. You happened to come in just in time.” 

“And this man whom you want to see,” Tavernake 
asked, “is he here?” 


DINNER WITH ELIZABETH 


245 


“Not yet,” she answered. 

There were, indeed, only a few scattered groups in the 
place, and most of these were obviously theatrical. But 
even at that moment a man came in alone through the 
circular doors, and stood just inside, looking around him. 
He was a man of medium height, thin, and of undistinguished 
appearance. His hair was light-colored and plastered 
a little in front over his forehead. His face was thin and 
he walked with a slight stoop. Something about his clothes 
and his manner of wearing them stamped him as an 
American. Tavernake glanced at his companion, wonder- 
ing whether this, perhaps, might not be the person for 
whom she was watching. His first glance was careless 
enough, then he felt his heart thump against his ribs. 
A tragedy had come into the room! The woman at his 
side sat as though turned to stone. There was a look in 
her face as of one who sees Death. The small patch of 
rouge, invisible before, was now a staring daub of color 
in an oasis of ashen white. Her eyes were as hard as 
stones; her lips were twitching as though, indeed, she had 
been stricken with some disease. No longer was he sit- 
ting with this most beautiful lady at whose coming all 
heads were turned in admiration. It was as though an 
image of Death sat there, a frozen presentment of horror 
itself! 


CHAPTER XXIII 


ON AN ERRAND OF CHIVALRY 

The seconds passed; the woman beside him showed no 
sign of life. Tavernake felt a fear run cold in his blood, 
such as in all his days he had never known. This, indeed, 
was something belonging to a world of which he knew 
nothing. What was it? Illness? Pain? Surprise? There 
was only his instinct to tell him. It was terror, the terror 
of one who looks beyond the grave. 

“Mrs. Gardner!” he exclaimed. “Elizabeth!” 

The sound of his voice seemed to break the spell. A 
half -choked sob came through her teeth; the struggle 
for composure commenced. 

“I am ill,” she murmured. “Give me my glass. Give 
it to me.” 

Her fingers were feeling for it but it seemed as though 
she dared not move her head. He filled it with wine and 
placed the stem in her hand. Even then she spilled some 
of it upon the tablecloth. As she raised it to her lips, the 
man who stood still upon the threshold of the restaurant 
looked into her face. Slowly, as though his quest were 
over, he came down the room. 

“ Go away,” she said to Tavernake. “ Go away, please. 
He is coming to speak to me. I want to be alone with 
him.” 

Strangely enough, at that moment Tavernake saw 


ON AN ERRAND OF CHIVALRY 247 

nothing out of the common in her request. He rose at 
once, without any formal leave-taking, and made his 
way toward the other end of the cafe. As he turned the 
corner towards the smoking-room, he glanced once be- 
hind. The man had approached quite close to Elizabeth; 
he was standing before her table, they seemed to be ex- 
changing greetings. 

Tavernake went on into the smoking-room and threw 
himself into an easy-chair. He had been there perhaps 
for ten minutes when Pritchard entered. Certainly it 
was a night of surprises ! Even Pritchard, cool, deliberate, 
slow in his movements and speech, seemed temporarily 
flurried. He came into the room walking quickly. As 
the door swung back, he turned round as though to assure 
himself that he was not being followed. He did not at 
flrst see Tavernake. He sat on the arm of an easy-chair, 
his hands in his pockets, his eternal cigar in the corner of 
his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the doors through which 
he had issued. Without a doubt, something had dis- 
turbed him. He had the look of a man who had received 
a blow, a surprise of some sort over which he was still 
ruminating. Then he glanced around the room and saw 
Tavernake. 

“Hullo, young man!” he exclaimed. “So this is the 
way you follow my advice!” 

“I never promised to follow it,” Tavernake reminded 
him. 

Pritchard wheeled an easy-chair across the room and 
called to the waiter. . 

“Come,” he said, “you shall stand me a drink. Two 
whiskies and sodas, Tim. And now, Mr. Leonard Taver- 
nake, you are going to answer me a question.” 

“Am I?” Tavernake muttered. 


248 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“You came down in the lift with Mrs. Wenham Gardner 
half an hour ago, you went into the restaurant and ordered 
supper. She is there still and you are here. Have you 
quarreled.^ ” 

“No, we did not quarrel,” Tavernake answered. “ She 
explained that she was supping in the cafe only for the 
sake of meeting one man. She wanted an escort. I filled 
that post until the man came.” 

“He is there now?” Pritchard asked. 

“He is there now,” Tavernake assented. 

Pritchard withdrew the cigar from his mouth and 
watched it for a moment. 

“Say, Tavernake,” he went on, “is that man who is 
now having supper with Mrs. Wenham Gardner the man 
whom she expected?” 

“I imagine so,” Tavernake replied. 

“Didn’t she seem in any way scared or disturbed 
when he first turned up?” 

“She looked as I have seen no one else on earth look 
before,” Tavernake admitted. “She seemed simply 
terrified to death. I do not know why — she did n’t 
explain — but that is how she looked.” 

“Yet she sent you away!” 

“ She sent me away. She did n’t care what became 
of me. She was watching the door all the time before he 
came. Who is he, Pritchard?” 

“That sounds a simple question,” Pritchard answered 
gravely, “but it means a good deal. There’s mischief 
afoot to-night, Tavernake.” 

“You seem to thrive on it,” Tavernake retorted, drily. 
“Any more bunkum?” 

Pritchard smiled. 

“ Come,” he said, “ you ’re a sensible chap. Take these 


ON AN ERRAND OF CHIVALRY 249 

things for what they ’re worth. Believe me when I tell 
you now that there is a great deal more in the coming 
of this man than Mrs. Wenham Gardner ever bargained 
for.” 

“I wish you’d tell me who he is,” Tavernake begged. 
“All this mystery about Beatrice and her sister, and that 
lazy old hulk of a father, is most irritating.” 

Pritchard nodded sympathetically. 

“You’ll have to put up with it a little longer, I’m 
afraid, my young friend,” he declared. “You’ve done 
me a good turn; I ’ll do you one. I ’ll give you some good 
advice. Keep out of this place so long as the old man 
and his daughter are hanging out here. The girl ’s clever — 
oh, she ’s as clever as they make them — but she ’s gone 
wrong from the start. They ain’t your sort, Tavernake. 
You don’t fit in anywhere. Take my advice and hook 
it altogether.” 

Tavernake shook his head. 

“I can’t do that just now,” he said. “Good-night! 
I ’m off for the present, at any rate.” 

Pritchard, too, rose to his feet. He passed his arm 
through Tavernake’s. 

“Young man,” he remarked, “there are not many in 
this country whom I can trust. You’re one of them. 
There’s a sort of solidity about you that I rather admire. 
You are not likely to break out and do silly things. Do 
you care for adventures?” 

“I detest them,” Tavernake answered, “especially the 
sort I tumbled into the other night.” 

Pritchard laughed softly. They had left the room now 
and were walking along the open space at the end of the 
restaurant, leading to the main exit. 

“That’s the difference between us,” he declared 


250 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

thoughtfully. “Now adventures to me are the salt of 
my life. I hang about here and watch these few respect- 
able-looking men and women, and there does n’t seem to 
be much in it to an outsider, but, gee whiz ! there ’s some- 
times things underneath which you fellows don’t tumble 
to. A man asks another in there to have a drink. They 
make a cheerful appointment to meet for lunch, to motor 
to Brighton. It all sounds so harmless, and yet there 
are the seeds of a conspiracy already sown. They hate 
me here, but they know very well that wherever they 
went I should be around. I suppose some day they ’U 
get rid of me.” 

“More bunkum!” Tavernake muttered. 

They stood in front of the door and passed through 
into the courtyard. On their right, the interior of the 
smaller restaurant was shielded from view by a lattice- 
work, covered with flowers and shrubs. Pritchard came 
to a standstill at a certain point, and stooping down looked 
through. He remained there without moving for what 
seemed to Tavernake an extraordinarily long time. When 
he stood up again, there was a distinct change in his face. 
He was looking more serious than Tavernake had ever 
seen him. But for the improbability of the thing, Taver- 
nake would have thought that he had turned pale. 

“My young friend,” he said, “you ’ve got to see me 
through this. You ’ve a sort of fancy for Mrs. Wenham 
Gardner, I know. To-night you shall be on her side.” 

“I don’t want any more mysteries,” Tavernake pro- 
tested. “I ’d rather go home.” 

“It can’t be done,” Pritchard declared, taking his arm 
once more. “You ’ve got to see me through this. Come 
up to my rooms for a minute.” 

They entered the Court and ascended to the eighth 


ON AN ERRAND OF CHIVALRY 251 

floor. Pritchard turned on the lights in his room, a 
plainly furnished and somewhat bare apartment. From 
a cupboard he took out a pair of rubber-soled shoes and 
threw them to Tavernake. 

“Put those on,” he directed. 

“What are we going to do?” Tavernake asked. 

“You are going to help me,” Pritchard answered. 
“Take my word for it, Tavernake, it’s all right. I could 
tackle the job alone, but I ’d rather not. Now drink 
this whiskey and soda and light a cigarette. I shall be 
ready in five minutes.” 

“But where are we going?” Tavernake demanded. 

“You are going,” Pritchard replied, “on an errand of 
chivalry. You are going to become once more a rescuer 
of woman in distress. You are going to save the life of 
your beautiful friend Elizabeth.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


CLOSE TO TRAGEDY 

The actual words of greeting which passed between 
Elizabeth and the man whose advent had caused her so 
much emotion were unimpressive. The newcomer, with 
the tips of his fingers resting upon the tablecloth, leaned 
slightly towards her. At close quarters, he was even 
more unattractive than when Tavernake had first seen 
him. He was faultily shaped; there was something a 
little decadent about his deep-set eyes and receding fore- 
head. Neither was his expression prepossessing. He 
looked at her as a man looks upon the thing he hates. 

“So, Elizabeth,” he said, “this pleasure has come at 
last!” 

“I heard that you were back in England,” she replied. 
“Pray sit down.” 

Even then her eyes never left his. All the time they 
seemed to be fiercely questioning, seeking for something 
in his features which eluded them. It was terrible to 
see the change which the last few minutes had wrought 
in her. Her smooth, girlish face had lost its comeliness. 
Her eyes, always a little narrow, seemed to have receded. 
It was such a change, this, as comes to a brave man who, 
in the prime of life, feels fear for the first time. 

“I am glad to find you at supper,” he declared, taking 
up the menu. “I am hungry. You can bring me some 


CLOSE TO TRAGEDY 253 

grilled cutlets at once,” he added to the waiter who 
stood by his side, “and some brandy. Nothing 
else.” 

The waiter bowed and hurried off. The woman played 
with her fan but her fingers were shaking. 

“I fear,” he remarked, “that my coming is rather a 
shock to you. I am sorry to see you looking so distressed.” 

“It is not that,” she answered with some show of 
courage. “You know me too well to believe me capable 
of seeking a meeting which I feared. It is the strange 
thing which has happened to you during these last few 
months — this last year. Do you know — has any one 
told you — that you seem to have become even more 
like — the image of — ” 

He nodded understandingly. 

“Of poor Wenham! Many people have told me that. 
Of course, you know that we were always appallingly 
alike, and they always said that we should become more 
so in middle-age. After all, there is only a year between 
us. We might have been twins.” 

“It is the most terrible thing in likenesses I have ever 
seen,” the woman continued slowly. “When you entered 
the room a few seconds ago, it seemed to me that a miracle 
had happened. It seemed to me that the dead had come 
to life.” 

“It must have been a shock,” the man murmured, 
with his eyes upon the tablecloth. 

“It was,” she agreed, hoarsely. “Can’t you see it in 
my face? I do not always look like a woman of forty. 
Can’t you see the gray shadows that are there? You 
see, I admit it frankly. I was terrified — lam terrified!” 

“And why?” he asked. 

“Why?” she repeated, looking at him wonderingly. 


^54 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“ Does n’t it seem to you a terrible thing to think of the 
dead coming back to life?” 

He tapped lightly upon the tablecloth for a minute 
with the fingers of one hand. Then he looked at her 
again. 

“It depends,” he said, “upon the manner of their 
death.” 

An executioner of the Middle Ages could not have 
played with his victim more skillfully. The woman was 
shivering now, preserving some outward appearance of 
calm only by the most fierce and unnatural effort. 

“What do you mean by that, Jerry?” she asked. “I 
was not even with — Wenham, when he was lost. You 
know all about it, I suppose, — how it happened? ” 

The man nodded thoughtfully. 

“I have heard many stories,” he admitted. “Before 
we leave the subject for ever, I should like to hear it 
from you, from your own lips.” 

There was a bottle of champagne upon the table, 
ordered at the commencement of the meal. She touched 
her glass; the waiter filled it. She raised it to her lips 
and set it down empty. Her fingers were clutching the 
tablecloth. 

“You ask me a hard thing, Jerry,” she said. “It is 
not easy to talk of anything so painful. From the moment 
we left New York, Wenham was strange. He drank a 
good deal upon the steamer. He used to talk sometimes 
in the most wild way. We came to London. He had an 
attack of delirium tremens. I nursed him through it 
and took him into the country, down into Cornwall. 
We took a small cottage on the outskirts of a fishing 
village — St. Catherine’s, the place was called. There 
we lived quietly for a time. Sometimes he was better, 


CLOSE TO TRAGEDY 


255 

sometimes worse. The doctor in the village was very- 
kind and came often to see him. He brought a friend 
from the neighboring town and they agreed that with 
complete rest Wenham would soon be better. All the 
time my life was a miserable one. He was not fit to be 
alone and yet he was a terrible companion. I did my 
best. I was with him half of every day, sometimes longer. 
I was with him till my own health began to suffer. At 
last I could stand the solitude no longer. I sent for my 
father. He came and lived with us.” 

‘‘The professor,” her listener murmured. 

She nodded. 

“It was a little better then for me,” she went on, “ex- 
cept that poor Wenham seemed to take such a dislike to 
my father. However, he hated every one in turn, even 
the doctors, who always did their best for him. One day, 
I admit, I lost my temper. We quarreled; I could not 
help it — life was becoming insupportable. He rushed 
out of the house — it was about three o ’clock in the 
afternoon. I have never seen him since.” 

The man was looking at her, looking at her closely 
although he was blinking all the time. 

“ What do you think became of him? ” he asked. “ What 
do people think?” 

She shook her head. 

“The only thing he cared to do was swim,” she said. 
“His clothes and hat were found down in the little cove 
near where we had a tent.” 

“You think, then, that he was drowned?” the man 
asked. 

She nodded. Speech seemed to be becoming too painful. 

^‘Drowning,” her companion continued, helping him- 
self to brandy, “is not a pleasant death. Once I was 


256 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

nearly drowned myself. One struggles for a short time 
and one thinks — yes, one thinks!” he added. 

He raised his glass to his lips and set it down. 

“It is an easy death, though,” he went on, “quite an 
easy death. By the way, were those clothes that were 
found of poor Wenham’s identified as the clothes he 
wore when he left the house?” 

She shook her head. 

“One could not say for certain,” she answered. “I 
never noticed how he was dressed. He wore nearly 
always the same sort of things, but he had an endless 
variety.” 

“And this was seven months ago — seven months.” 

She assented. 

“Poor Wenham,” he murmured. “I suppose he is 
dead. What are you going to do, Elizabeth?” 

“I do not know,” she replied. “Soon I must go to the 
lawyers and ask for advice. I have very little more money 
left. I have written several times to New York to you, 
to his friends, but I have had no answer. After all, Jerry, 
I am his wife. No one hked my marrying him, but I am 
his wife. I have a right to a share of his property if he 
is dead. If he has deserted me, surely I shall be allowed 
something. I do not even know how rich he was.” 

The man at her side smiled. 

“Much better off than I ever was,” he declared. “But, 
Elizabeth ! ” 

“Well?” 

“There were rumors that, before you left New York, 
Wenham converted very large sums of money into letters 
of credit and bonds, very large sums indeed.” 

She shook her head. 

“He had a letter of credit for about a thousand pounds, 


CLOSE TO TRAGEDY 


257 

I think,” she said. “There is very little left of the money 
he had with him.” 

“And you find living here expensive, I dare say?” 

“Very expensive indeed,” she agreed, with a sigh. “I 
have been looking forward to seeing you, Jerry. I thought, 
perhaps, for the sake of old times you might advise me.” 

“Of old times,” he repeated to himself softly. “Eliza- 
beth, do you think of them sometimes?” 

She was becoming more herself. This was a game she 
was used to playing. Of old times, indeed! It seemed 
only yesterday that these two brothers, who had the 
reputation in those days of being the richest young men 
in New York, were both at her feet. So far, she had 
scarcely been fortunate. There was still a chance, however. 
She looked up. It seemed to her that he was losing his 
composure. Yes, there was something of the old gleam 
in his eyes! Once he had been madly enough in love 
with her. It ought not to be impossible! 

“Jerry,” she said, “I have told you these things. It 
has been so very, very painful for me. Won’t you try 
now and be kind? Remember that I am all alone and it 
is all very diflScult for me. I have been looking forward 
to your coming. I have thought so often of those times 
we spent together in New York. Won’t you be my friend 
again? Won’t you help me through these dark days?” 

Her hand touched his. For a moment he snatched 
his away as though stung. Then he caught her fingers 
in his and held them as though in a vice. She smiled, 
the smile of conscious power. The flush of beauty was 
streaming once more into her face. Poor fellow, he was 
still in love, then! The fingers which had closed upon 
hers were burning. What a pity that he was not a little 
more presentable! 


258 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Yes,” he muttered, “we must be friends, Elizabeth. 
Wenham had all the luck at first. Perhaps it’s going to 
be my turn now, eh?” 

He bent towards her. She laughed into his face for a 
moment and then was once more suddenly colorless, the 
smile frozen upon her lips. She began to shiver. 

“What is it?” he asked. “What is it, Elizabeth?” 

“Nothing,” she faltered, “only I wish — I do wish 
that you were not so much like Wenham. Sometimes a 
trick of your voice, the way you hold your head — 
it terrifies me!” 

He laughed oddly. 

“You must get used to that, Elizabeth,” he declared. 
“I can’t help being like him, you know. We were 
great friends always until you came. I wonder why 
you preferred Wenham.” 

“Don’t ask me — please don’t ask me that,” she 
begged. “Really, I think he happened to be there just 
at the moment I felt like making a clean sweep of every- 
thing, of leaving New York and every one and starting 
life again, and I thought Wenham meant it. I thought I 
should be able to keep him from drinking and to help 
him start a new life altogether over here or on the Con- 
tinent.” 

“Poor little woman,” he said, “you have been dis- 
appointed, I am afraid.” 

She sighed. 

“I am only human, you know,” she went on. “Every 
one told me that Wenham was a millionaire, too. See 
how much I have benefited by it. I am almost penniless, 
I do not know whether he is dead or alive, I do not know 
what to do to get some money. Was Wenham very rich, 
Jerry?” 


CLOSE TO TRAGEDY 


259 


The man laughed. 

“Oh, he was very rich indeed!” he assured her. “It is 
terrible that you should be left like this. We will talk 
about it together presently, you and I. In the meantime, 
you must let me be your banker.” 

“Dear Jerry,” she whispered, “you were always 
generous.” 

“You have not spoken of the little prude — dear Miss 
Beatrice,” he reminded her suddenly. 

Elizabeth sighed. 

“Beatrice was a great trial from the first,” she de- 
clared. “You know how she disliked you both — she 
was scarcely even civil to Wenham, and she would never 
have come to Europe with us if father had n’t insisted 
upon it. We took her down to Cornwall with us and 
there she became absolutely insupportable. She was 
always interfering between Wenham and me and imagin- 
ing the most absurd things. One day she left us without 
a word of warning. I have never seen her since.” 

The man stared gloomily into his plate. 

“She was a queer little thing,” he muttered. “She 
was good, and she seemed to like being good.” 

Elizabeth laughed, not quite pleasantly. 

“You speak as though the rest of us,” she remarked, 
“were qualified to take orders in wickedness.” 

He helped himself to more brandy. 

“Think back,” he said. “Think of those days in New 
York, the life we led, the wild things we did week after 
week, month after month, the same eternal round of 
turning night into day, of struggling everywhere to find 
new pleasures, pulling vice to pieces like children trying 
to find the inside of their playthings.” 

“I don’t like your mood in the least,” she interrupted. 


260 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


He drummed for a moment upoii the tablecloth with 
his fingers. 

“We were talking of Beatrice. You don’t even know 
where she is now, then.f^” 

“I have no idea,” Ehzabeth declared. 

“She was with you for long in Cornwall.^” he asked. 

Elizabeth toyed with her wineglass for a minute. 

“She was there about a month,” she admitted. 

“And she did n’t approve of the way you and Wenham 
behaved?” he demanded. 

“Apparently not. She left us, anyway. She did n’t 
understand Wenham in the least. I should n’t be sur- 
prised,” Elizabeth went on, “to hear that she was a 
hospital nurse, or learning typing, or a clerk in an oflSce. 
She was a young woman of gloomy ideas, although she 
was my sister.” 

He came a little closer towards her. 

“Elizabeth,” he said, “we will not talk any more about 
Beatrice. We will not talk any more about anything 
except our two selves.” 

“Are you really glad to see me again, Jerry?” she 
asked softly. 

“You must know it, dear,” he whispered. “You must 
know that I loved you always, that I adored you. Oh, 
you knew it! Don’t tell me you didn’t. You knew it, 
Elizabeth!” 

She looked down at the tablecloth. 

“Yes, I knew it,” she admitted, softly. 

“Can’t you guess what it is to me to see you again 
like this?” he continued. 

She sighed. 

“It is something for me, too, to feel that I have a 
friend close at hand.” 


CLOSE TO TRAGEDY 


261 


“Come,” he said, “they are turning out the lights here. 
You want to know about Wenham’s property. Let me 
come upstairs with you for a little time and I will tell 
you as much as I can from memory.” 

He paid the bill, helped her on with her cloak. His 
fingers seemed like burning spots upon her flesh. They 
went up in the lift. In the corridors he drew her to him 
and she began to tremble. 

“What is there strange about you, Jerry?” she faltered, 
looking into his face. “You terrify me!” 

“You are glad to see me? Say you are glad to see me? ” 

“Yes, I am glad,” she whispered. 

Outside the door of her rooms, she hesitated. 

“Perhaps,” she suggested, faintly, — “wouldn’t it be 
better if you came to-morrow morning?” 

Once more his fingers touched her and again that 
extraordinary sense of fear seemed to turn her blood 
cold. 

“No,” he replied, “I have been put off long enough! 
You must let me in, you must talk with me for half an 
hour. I will go then, I promise. Half an hour! Eliza- 
beth, have n’t I waited an eternity for it? ” 

He took the keys from her fingers and opened the door, 
closing it again behind them. She led the way into the 
sitting-room. The whole place was in darkness but she 
turned on the electric light. The cloak slipped from her 
shoulders. He took her hands and looked at her. 

“Jerry,” she whispered, “you mustn’t look at me like 
that. You terrify me! Let me go!” 

She wrenched herself free with an effort. She stepped 
back to the comer of the room, as far as she could get 
from him. Her heart was beating fiercely. Somehow or 
other, neither of these two young men, over whose lives 


262 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


she had certainly brought to bear a very wonderful in- 
fluence, had ever before stirred her pulses like this. What 
was it, she wondered.^ What was the meaning of it.?^ 
Why did n’t he speak? He did nothing but look, and 
there were unutterable things in his eyes. Was he angry 
with her because she had married Wenham, or was he 
blaming her because Wenham had gone? There was 
passion in his face, but such passion! Desire, perhaps, 
but what else? She caught up a telegram which lay upon 
her writing desk, and tore it open. It was an escape for a 
moment. She read the words, stared, and read them 
aloud incredulously. It was from her father. 

“Jerry Gardner sailed for New York to-day.” 

She looked up at the man, and as she looked her face 
grew gray and the thin sheet went quivering from her 
lifeless fingers to the floor. Then he began to laugh, and 
she knew. 

“Wenham!” she shrieked. “Wenham!” 

There was murder in his face, murder almost in his 
laugh. 

“Your loving husband!” he answered. 

She sprang for the door but even as she moved she 
heard the click of the bolt shot back. He touched the 
electric switch and the room was suddenly in darkness. 
She heard him coming towards her, she felt his hot breath 
upon her cheek. 

“My loving wife!” he whispered. “At last!” 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE MADMAN TALKS 

Tavernake turned on the light. Pritchard, with a quick 
leap forward, seized Wenham around the waist and 
dragged him away. Elizabeth had fainted; she lay upon 
the floor, her face the color of marble. 

“Get some water and throw over her,” Pritchard 
ordered. 

Tavernake obeyed. He threw open the window and 
let in a current of air. In a moment or two the woman 
stirred and raised her head. 

“Look after her for a minute,” Pritchard said. “I ’ll 
lock this flerce little person up in the bathroom.” 

Pritchard carried his prisoner out. Tavernake leaned 
over the woman who was slowly coming back to conscious- 
ness. 

“Tell me about it,” she asked, hoarsely. “Where is 
he?” 

“Locked up in the bathroom,” Tavernake answered. 
“Pritchard is taking care of him. He won’t be able to get 
out.” 

“You know who it was?” she faltered. 

“ I do not,” Tavernake replied. “ It is n’t my business. 
I ’m only here because Pritchard begged me to come. He 
thought he might want help.” 

She held his fingers tightly. 


264 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“Where were you?” she asked. 

“In the bathroom when you arrived. Then he bolted 
the door behind and we had to come round through your 
bedroom.” 

“How did Pritchard find out?” 

“I know nothing about it,” Tavernake replied. “I 
only know that he peered through the latticework and 
saw you sitting there at supper.” 

She smiled weakly. 

“It must have been rather a shock to him,” she said. 
“He has been convinced for the last six months that I 
murdered Wenham, or got rid of him by some means or 
other. Help me up.” 

She staggered to her feet. Tavernake assisted her to 
an easy chair. Then Pritchard came in. 

“He is quite safe,” he announced, “sitting on the edge 
of the bath playing with a doll.” 

She shivered. 

“What is he doing with it?” she asked. 

“ Showing me exactly, with a shawl pin, where he meant 
to have stabbed you,” Pritchard answered, drily. “Now, 
my dear lady,” he continued, “it seems to me that I have 
done you one injustice, at any rate. I certainly thought 
you ’d helped to relieve the world of that young person. 
Where did he come from? Perhaps you can tell me that.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“I suppose I may as well,” she said. “Listen, you have 
seen what he was like to-night, but you don’t know what 
it was to live with him. It was Hell ! ” — she sobbed — 
“absolute Hell! He drank, he took drugs, it was all his 
servant could do to force him even to make his toilet. It 
was impossible. It was crushing the life out of me.” 

“Go on,” Pritchard directed. 


THE MADMAN TALKS 265 

** There is n’t much more to tell,” she continued. “I 
found an old farmhouse — the loneliest spot in Cornwall. 
We moved there and I left him — with Mathers. I prom- 
ised Mathers that he should have twenty pounds a week 
for every week he kept his master away from me. He 
has kept him away for seven months.” 

“ What about that story of yours — about his having 
gone in swimming?” Pritchard asked. 

“I wanted people to believe that he was dead,” she 
declared defiantly. “I was afraid that if you or his rela- 
tions found him, I should have to live with him or give up 
the money.” 

Pritchard nodded. 

“And to-night you thought — ” 

“I thought he was his brother Jerry,” she went on. 
“The likeness was always amazing, you know that. I 
was told that Jerry was in town. I felt nervous, somehow, 
and wired to Mathers. I had his reply only last night. 
He wired that Wenham was quite safe and contented, 
not even restless.” 

“That telegram was sent by Wenham himself,” Pritchard 
remarked. “I think you had better hear what he has to 
say.” 

She shrank back. 

“No, I could n’t bear the sight of him again!” 

“I think you had better,” Pritchard insisted. “I can 
assure you that he is quite harmless. I will guarantee 
that.” 

He left the room. Soon he returned, his arm locked 
in the arm of Wenham Gardner. The latter had the look 
of a spoilt child who is in disgrace. He sat sullenly upon 
a chair and glared at every one. Then he produced a 
small crumpled doll, with a thread of black cotton around 


266 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

its neck, and began swinging it in front of him, laughing 
at Elizabeth all the time. 

“Tell us,” Pritchard asked, “what has become of 
Mathers?” 

He stopped swinging the doll, shivered for a moment, 
and then laughed. 

“I don’t mind,” he declared. “I guess I don’t mind 
telling. You see, whatever I was when I did it, I am mad 
now — quite mad. My friend Pritchard here says I am 
mad. I must have been mad or I should n’t have tried 
to hurt that dear beautiful lady over there.” 

He leered at Elizabeth, who shrank back. 

“She ran away from me some time ago,” he went on, 
“sick to death of me she was. She thought she’d got 
all my money. She had n’t. There ’s plenty more, — 
plenty more. She ran away and left me with Mathers. 
She was paying him so much a week to keep me quiet, 
not to let me go anywhere where I should talk, to keep 
me away from her so that she could live up here and see 
all her friends and spend my money. And at first I did n’t 
mind, and then I did mind, and I got angry with Mathers, 
and Mathers would n’t let me come away, and three nights 
ago I killed Mathers.” 

There was a little thrill of horror. He looked from one 
to the other. By degrees their fear seemed to become 
communicated to him. 

“What do you mean by looking like that, all of you?” 
he exclaimed. “What does it matter? He was only my 
man-servant. I am Wenham Gardner, millionaire. No 
one will put me in prison for that. Besides, he should n’t 
have tried to keep me away from my wife. Anyway, it 
don’t matter. I am quite mad. Mad people can do what 
they like. They have to stop in an asylum for six months. 


THE MADMAN TALKS 


267 

and then they’re quite cured and they start again. I 
don’t mind being mad for six months. Elizabeth,” he 
whined, “ come and be mad, too. You have n’t been kind 
to me. There’s plenty more money — plenty more. 
Come back for a little time and I’ll show you.” 

“How did you kill Mathers?” Pritchard asked. 

“I stabbed him when he was stooping down,” Wenham 
Gardner explained. “You see, when I left college my 
father thought it would be good for me to do something. 
I dare say it would have been but I didn’t want to. I 
studied surgery for six months. The only thing I remember 
was just where to kill a man behind the left shoulder. 
I remembered that. Mathers was a fat man, and he 
stooped so that his coat almost burst. I just leaned over, 
picked out the exact spot, and he crunipled all up. I 
expect,” he went on, “you’ll find him there still. No 
one comes near the place for days and days. Mathers 
used to leave me locked up and do all the shopping him- 
self. I expect he’s lying there now. Some one ought to 
go and see.” 

Elizabeth was sobbing quietly to herself. Tavernake 
felt the perspiration break out upon his forehead. There 
was something appalling in the way this young man talked. 

“I don’t understand why you all look so serious,” he 
continued. “No one is going to hurt me for this. I am 
quite mad now. You see, I am playing with this doll. 
Sane men don’t play with dolls. I hope they’ll try me 
in New York, though. I am well-known in New York. 
I know all the lawyers and the jurymen. Oh, they’re 
up to all sorts of tricks in New York! Say, you don’t 
suppose they’ll try me over here?” he broke off suddenly, 
turning to Pritchard. “ I should n’t feel so much at home 
here.” 


268 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


“ Take him away,” Eizabeth begged. “ Take him away . ” 
Pritchard nodded. 

“I thought you’d better hear,” he said. “I am going 
to take him away now. I shall send a telegram to the 
police-station at St. Catherine’s. They had better go up 
and see what’s happened.” 

Pritchard took his captive once more by the arm. The 
young man struggled violently. 

“I don’t like you, Pritchard,” he shrieked. “I don’t 
want to go with you. I want to stay with Elizabeth. I 
am not really afraid of her. She ’d like to kill me, I know, 
but she’s too clever — oh, she’s too clever! I’d like to 
stay with her.” 

Pritchard led him away. 

“We’ll see about it later on,” he said. “You’d better 
come with me just now.” 

The door closed behind them. Tavernake staggered 
up. 

“I must go,” he declared. “I must go, too.” 

Elizabeth was sobbing quietly to herself. She seemed 
scarcely to hear him. On the threshold Tavernake turned 
back. 

“That money,” he asked, “the money you were going 
to lend me — was that his?” 

She looked up and nodded. Tavernake went slowly 
out. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A CRISIS 

Pritchard was the first visitor who had ever found his 
way into Tavernake’s lodgings. It was barely eight 
o’clock on the same morning. Tavernake, hollow-eyed and 
bewildered, sat up upon the sofa and gazed across the 
room. 

“Pritchard!” he exclaimed. “Why, what do you 
want?” 

Pritchard laid his hat and gloves upon the table. Already 
his first swift glance had taken in the details of the little 
apartment. The overcoat and hat which Tavernake had 
worn the night before lay by his side. The table was 
still arranged for some meal of the previous day. Apart 
from these things, a single glance assured him that Taver- 
nake had not been to bed. 

Pritchard drew up an easy-chair and seated himself 
deliberately. 

“My young friend,” he announced, “I have come to 
the conclusion that you need some more advice.” 

Tavernake rose to his feet. His own reflection in the 
looking-glass startled him. His hair was crumpled, his 
tie undone, the marks of his night of agony were all too 
apparent. He felt himself at a disadvantage. 

“How did you find me out?” he asked. “I never gave 
you my address.” 

Pritchard smiled. 


270 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Even in this country, with a little help,” he said, 
“those things are easy enough. I made up my mind that 
this morning would be to some extent a crisis with you. 
You know, Tavernake, I am not a man who says much, 
but you are the right sort. You Ve been in with me 
twice when I should have missed you if you had nT been 
there.” ' 

Tavernake seemed to have lost the power of speech. 
He had relapsed again into his place upon the sofa. He 
simply waited. 

“How in the name of mischief,” Pritchard continued, 
impressively, “you came to be mixed up in the lives of 
this amiable trio, I cannot imagine! I am not saying a 
word against Miss Beatrice, mind. All that surprises 
me is that you and she should ever have come together, 
or, having come together, that you should ever have 
exchanged a word. You see, I am here to speak plain 
truths. You are, I take it, a good sample of the hard, 
stubborn, middle-class Briton. These three people of 
whom I have spoken, belong — Miss Beatrice, perhaps, 
by force of circumstances — but still they do belong to 
the land of Bohemia. However, when one has got over 
the surprise of finding you on intimate terms with Miss 
Beatrice, there comes a more amazing thing. You, with 
hard common sense written everywhere in your face, have 
been prepared at any moment, for all I know are pre- 
pared now, to make an utter and complete idiot of your- 
self over Elizabeth Gardner.” 

Still Tavernake did not speak. Pritchard looked at 
him curiously. 

“Say,” he went on, “I have come here to do you a 
service, if I can. So far as I know at present, this very 
wonderful young lady has kept on the right side of the 


A CRISIS 


271 

law. But see here, Tavernake, she ’s been on the wrong 
side of everything that’s decent and straight all her days. 
She married that poor creature for his money, and set 
herself deliberately to drive him off his head. Last night’s 
tragedy was her doing, not his, though he, poor devil, 
will have to end his days in an asylum, and the lady will 
have his money to make herself more beautiful than ever 
with. Now I am going to let you behind the scenes, my 
young friend.” 

Then Tavernake rose to his feet. In the shabby little 
room he seemed to have grown suddenly taller. He struck 
the crazy table with his clenched fist so that the crockery 
upon it rattled. Pritchard was used to seeing men — 
strong men, too — moved by various passions, but in 
Tavernake’s face he seemed to see new things. 

“Pritchard,” Tavernake exclaimed, “I don’t want to 
hear another word!” 

Pritchard smiled. 

“Look here,” he said, “what I am going to tell you is 
the truth. What I am going to tell you I ’d as soon say 
in the presence of the lady as here.” 

Tavernake took a step forward and Pritchard suddenly 
realized the man who had thrown himself through that 
little opening in the wall, one against three, without a 
thought of danger. 

“If you say a single word more against her,” Taver- 
nake shouted hoarsely, “I shall throw you out of the 
room!” 

Pritchard stared at him. There was something amaz- 
ing about this young man’s attitude, something which he 
could not wholly grasp. He could see, too, that Taver- 
nake’s words were so few simply because he was trembling 
under the influence of an immense passion. 


272 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“If you won’t listen,” Pritchard declared, slowly, “I 
can’t talk. Still, you’ve got common sense, I take it. 
You’ve the ordinary powers of judging between right 
and wrong, and knowing when a man or a woman ’s honest. 
I want to save you — ” 

“Silence!” Tavernake exclaimed. “Look here, Pritch- 
ard,” he went on, breathing a little more naturally now, 
“you came here meaning to do the right thing — I know 
that. You’re all right, only you don’t understand. You 
don’t understand the sort of person I am. I am twenty- 
four years old, I have worked for my own living up here 
in London since I was twelve. I was a man, so far as 
work and independence went, at fifteen. Since then I 
have had my shoulder to the wheel; I have lived on noth- 
ing; I have made a little money where it did n’t seem pos- 
sible. I have worried my way into posts which it seemed 
that no one could think of giving me, but all the time 
I have lived in a little corner of the world — like 
that.” 

His finger suddenly described a circle in the air. 

“You don’t understand — you can’t,” he went on, 
“but there it is. I never spoke to a woman until I spoke 
to Beatrice. Chance made me her friend. I began to 
understand the outside of some of those things which I 
had never even dreamed of before. She set me right in 
many ways. I began to read, think, absorb little bits of 
the real world. It was all wonderful. Then Elizabeth 
came. I met her, too, by accident — she came to my 
office for a house — Elizabeth!” 

Pritchard found something almost pathetic in the sud- 
den dropping of Tavernake’s voice, the softening of his 
face. 

“I don’t know how to talk about these things,” Taver- 


A CRISIS 


273 

nake said, simply. “There’s a literature that’s reached 
from before the Bible to now, full of nothing else. It’s 
all as old as the hills. I suppose I am about the only sane 
man in this city who knew nothing of it; but I did know 
nothing of it, and she was the first woman. Now you 
understand. I can’t hear a word against her — I won’t ! 
She may be what you say. If so, she’s got to tell me so 
herself ! ” 

“You mean that you are going to believe any story 
she likes to put up?” 

“I mean that I am going to her,” Tavernake answered, 
“and I have no idea in the world what will happen — 
whether I shall believe her or not. I can see what you 
think of me,” he went on, becoming a httle more himself 
as the stress of unaccustomed speech passed him by. 
“ I will tell you something that will show you that I realize 
a good deal. I know the difference between Beatrice and 
Elizabeth. Less than a week ago, I asked Beatrice to 
marry me. It was the only way I could think of, the 
only way I could kill the fever.” 

“And Beatrice?” Pritchard asked, curiously. 

“She wouldn’t,” Tavernake replied. “After all, why 
should she? I have my way to make yet. I can’t expect 
others to believe in me as I believe in myself. She was 
kind but she would n’t.” 

Pritchard lit a cigar. 

“Look here, Tavernake,” he said, “you are a young 
man, you’ve got your life before you and life’s a biggish 
thing. Empty out those romantic thoughts of yours, 
roll up your shirt sleeves and get at it. You are not one 
of these weaklings that need a woman’s whispers in their 
ears to spur them on. You can work without that. It’s 
only a chapter in your life — the passing of these three 


274 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

people. A few months ago, you knew nothing of them. 
Let them go. Get back to where you were.” 

Then Tavernake for the first time laughed — a laugh 
that sounded even natural. 

“Have you ever found a man who could do that.?” he 
asked. “The candle gives a good light sometimes, but 
you’ll never think it the finest illumination in the world 
when you’ve seen the sun. Never mind me, Pritchard. 
I’m going to do my best still, but there’s one thing that 
nothing will alter. I am going to make that woman tell 
me her story, I am going to listen to the way she tells 
it to me. You think that where women are concerned I 
am a fool. I am, but there is one great boon which has 
been vouchsafed to fools — they can tell the true from 
the false. Some sort of instinct, I suppose. Elizabeth 
shall tell me her story and I shall know, when she tells 
it, whether she is what you say or what she has seemed 
to me.” 

Pritchard held out his hand. 

“You’re a queer sort, Tavernake,” he declared. “You 
take life plaguy seriously. I only hope you ’ll get all 
out of it you expect to. So long!” 

Tavernake opened the window after his visitor had 
gone, and leaned out for some few minutes, letting the 
fresh air into the close, stifling room. Then he went 
upstairs, bathed and changed his clothes, made some 
pretense at breakfast, went through his letters with 
methodical exactness. At eleven o’clock he set out upon 
his pilgrimage. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


TAVERNAKE CHOOSES 

Tavernake was kept waiting in the hall of the Milan 
Court for at least half an hour before Elizabeth was 
prepared to see him. He wandered aimlessly about 
watching the people come and go, looking out into the 
flower-hung courtyard, curiously unconscious of himself 
and of his errand, unable to concentrate his thoughts 
for a moment, yet filled all the time with the dull and 
uneasy sensation of one who moves in a dream. Every 
now and then he heard scraps of conversation from the 
servants and passers-by, referring to the last night’s 
incident. He picked up a paper but threw it down after 
only a casual glance at the paragraph. He saw enough 
to convince him that for the present, at any rate, Eliza- 
beth seemed assured of a certain amount of sympathy. 
The career of poor Wenham Gardner was set down in 
black and white, with little extenuation, little mercy. 
His misdeeds in Paris, his career in New York, spoke for 
themselves. He was quoted as a type, a decadent of the 
most debauched instincts, to whom crime was a relaxa- 
tion and vice a habit. Tavernake would read no more. 
He might have been all these things, and yet she had 
become his wife! 

At last came the message for whioh he was waiting. 
As usual, her maid met him at the door of her suite and 


276 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

ushered him in. Elizabeth was dressed for the part — 
very simply, with a suggestion even of mourning in her 
gray gown. She welcomed him with a pathetic smile. 

“Once more, my dear friend,” she said, “I have to 
thank you.” 

Her fingers closed upon his and she smiled into his 
face. Tavernake found himself curiously unresponsive. 
It was the same smile, and he knew very well that he 
himself had not changed, yet it seemed as though life 
itself were in a state of suspense for him. 

“You, too, are looking grave this morning, my friend,” 
she continued. “Oh, how horrible it has all been! Within 
the last two hours I have had at least five reporters, a 
gentleman from Scotland Yard, another from the American 
Ambassador to see me. It is too terrible, of course,” she 
went on. “Wenham’s people are doing all they canto 
make it worse. They want to know why we were not 
together, why he was living in the country and I in town. 
They are trying to show that he was under restraint 
there, as if such a thing were possible! Mathers was his 
own servant — poor Mathers!” 

She sighed and wiped her eyes. Still Tavernake said 
nothing. She looked at him, a little surprised. 

“You are not very sympathetic,” she observed. “Please 
come and sit down by my side and I will show you some- 
thing.” 

He moved towards her but he did not sit down. She 
stretched out her hand and picked something up from 
the table, holding it towards him. Tavernake took it 
mechanically and held it in his fingers. It was a cheque 
for twelve thousand pounds. 

“You see,” she said, “I have not forgotten. This is 
the day, isn’t it? If you like, you can stay and have 


TAVERNAKE CHOOSES 277 

lunch with me up here and we will drink to the success 
of our speculation.” 

Tavernake held the cheque in his fingers; he made no 
' motion to put it in his pocket. She looked at him with a 
puzzled frown upon her face. 

“Do talk or say something, please!” she exclaimed. 
“You look at me like some grim figure. Say something. 
Sit down and be natural.” 

“May I ask you some questions?” 

“Of course you may,” she replied. “You may do 
anything sooner than stand there looking so grim and 
unbending. What is it you want to know?” 

“Did you understand that Wenham Gardner was this 
sort of man when you married him?” 

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. 

“I suppose I did,” she admitted. 

“You married him, then, only because he was rich?” 

She smiled. 

“What else do women marry for, my dear moralist?” 
she demanded. “It isn’t my fault if it doesn’t sound 
pretty. One must have money!” 

Tavernake inclined his head gravely; he made no 
sign of dissent. 

“You two came over to England,” he went on, “with 
Beatrice and your father. Beatrice left you because she 
disapproved of certain things.” 

Elizabeth nodded. 

“ You may as well know the truth,” she said. “Beatrice 
has the most absurd ideas. After a week with Wenham, 
I knew that he was not a person with whom any woman 
could possibly live. His valet was really only his keeper; 
he was subject to such mad fits that he needed some one 
always with him. I was obliged to leave him in Corn- 


278 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

wall. I can’t tell you everything, but it was absolutely 
impossible for me to go on living with him.” 

“Beatrice,” Tavernake remarked, “thought otherwise.” 

Elizabeth looked at him quickly from below her eyelids. 
It was hard, however, to gather anything from his face. 

“Beatrice thought otherwise,” Elizabeth admitted. 
“She thought that I ought to nurse him, put up with 
him, give up all my friends, and try and keep him alive. 
Why, it would have been absolute martyrdom, misery 
for me,” she declared. “How could I be expected to do 
such a thing?” 

Tavernake nodded gravely. 

“And the money?” he asked. 

“Well, perhaps there I was a trifle calculating,” she 
confessed. “But you,” she added, nodding at the cheque 
in his hand, “should n’t grumble at that. I knew when 
we were married that I should have trouble. His people 
hated me, and I knew that in the event of anything 
happening like this thing which has happened, they 
would try to get as little as possible allowed me. So 
before we left New York, I got Wenham to turn as 
much as ever he could into cash. That we brought 
away with us.” 

“And who took care of it?” 

Elizabeth smiled. 

“I did,” she answered, “naturally.” 

“Tell me about last night,” Tavernake said. “I 
suppose I am stupid but I don’t quite understand.” 

“How should you?” she answered. “Listen, then. 
Wenham, I suppose got tired of being shut up with 
Mathers, although I am sure I don’t see what else was 
possible. So he waited for his opportunity, and when 
the man was n’t looking — well, you know what hap- 


TAVERNAKE CHOOSES 279 

pened,” she added, with a shiver. “He got up to 
London somehow and made his way to Dover Street.” 

“Why Dover Street?” t 

“I suppose you know,” Elizabeth explained, “that 
Wenham has a brother — Jerry — who is exactly like 
him. These two had rooms in Dover Street always, 
where they kept some English clothes and a servant. 
Jerry Gardner was over in London. I knew that, and 
was expecting to see him every day. Wenham found his 
way to the rooms, dressed himself in his brother’s clothes, 
even wore his ring and some of his jewelry, which he 
knew I should recognize, and came here. I believed — 
yes, I believed all the time,” she went on, her voice 
trembling, “that it was Jerry who was sitting with me. 
Once or twice I had a sort of terrible shiver. Then I 
remembered how much they were alike and it seemed 
to me ridiculous to be afraid. It was not till we got 
upstairs, till the door was closed behind me, that he 
turned round and I knew!” 

Her head fell suddenly into her hands. It was almost 
the first sign of emotion. Tavernake analyzed it merci- 
lessly. He knew very well that it was fear, the coward’s 
fear of that terrible moment. 

“And now?” 

“Now,” she went on, more cheerfully, “no one will 
venture to deny that Wenham is mad. He will be placed 
under restraint, of course, and the courts will make me 
an allowance. One thing is absolutely certain, and that 
is that he will not live a year.” 

Tavernake half closed his eyes. Was there no sign of 
his suffering, no warning note of the things which were 
passing out of his life! The woman who smiled upon 
him seemed to see nothing. The twitching of his fingers. 


28 o the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

the slight quivering of his face, she thought was because 
of his fear for her. 

“And now,” she declared, in a suddenly altered tone, 
“this is all over and done with. Now you know every- 
thing. There are no more mysteries,” she added, smiling 
at him delightfully. “It is all very terrible, of course, 
but I feel as though a great weight had passed away. 
You and I are going to be friends, are we not.?” 

She rose slowly to her feet and came towards him. His 
eyes watched her slow, graceful movements as though fas- 
cinated. He remembered on that first visit of his how 
wonderful he had thought her walk. She was still smiling 
up at him; her fingers fell upon his shoulders. 

“You are such a strange person,” she murmured. 
“You aren’t a little bit like any of the men I’ve ever 
known, any of the men I have ever cared to have as 
friends. There is something about you altogether different. 
I suppose that is why I rather like you. Are you glad?” 

For a single wild moment Tavernake hesitated. She 
was so close to him that her hair touched his forehead, 
the breath from her upturned lips fell upon his cheeks. 
Her blue eyes were half pleading, half inviting. 

“You are going to be my veiy dear friend, are you not 
— Leonard?” she whispered. “I do feel that I need 
some one strong like you to help me through these 
days.” 

Tavernake suddenly seized the hands that were upon 
his shoulders, and forced them back. She felt herself 
gripped as though by a vice, and a sudden terror seized 
her. He lifted her up and she caught a glimpse of his 
wild, set face. Then the breath came through his teeth. 
He shook all over but the fit had passed. He simply 
thrust her away from him. 


28 i 


TAVERNAKE CHOOSES 

“No,” he said, “we cannot be friends! You are a 
woman without a heart, you are a murderess!” 

He tore her cheque calmly in pieces and flung them 
scornfully away. She stood looking at him, breathing 
quickly, white to the lips though the murder had gone 
from his eyes. 

“Beatrice warned me,” he went on; “Pritchard warned 
me. Some things I saw for myself, but I suppose I was 
mad. Now I know!” 

He turned away. Her eyes followed him wonderingly. 

“Leonard,” she cried out, “you are not going like this? 
You don’t mean it!” 

Ever afterwards his restraint amazed him. He did not 
reply. He closed both doors firmly behind him and 
walked to the lift. She came even to the outside door 
and called down the corridor. 

“Leonard, copie back for one moment!” 

He turned his head and looked at her, looked at her 
from the corner of the corridor, steadfastly and without 
speech. Her fingers dropped from the handle of the 
door. She went back into her room with shaking knees, 
and began to cry softly. Afterwards she wondered at 
herself. It was the first time she had cried for many 
years. 

Tavernake walked to the city and in less than half an 
hour’s time found himself in Mr. Martin’s office. The 
lawyer welcomed him warmly. 

“I’m jolly glad to see you, Tavernake,” he declared. 
“I hope you’ve got the money. Sit down.” 

Tavernake did not sit down; he had forgotten, indeed, 
to take off his hat. 

“Martin,” he said, “I am sorry for you. I have been 


282 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

fooled and you have to pay as well as I have. I can’t 
take up the option on the property. I have n’t a penny 
toward it except my own money, and you know how 
much that is. You can sell my plots, if you like, and call 
the money your costs. I’ve finished.” 

The lawyer looked at him with wide-open mouth. 

“What on earth are you talking about, Tavernake?” 
he exclaimed. “Are you drunk, by any chance?” 

“No, I am quite sober,” Tavernake answered. “I have 
made one or two bad mistakes, that’s all. You have a 
power of attorney for me. You can do what you like 
with my land, make any terms you please. Good-day!” 

“But, Tavernake, look here!” the lawyer protested, 
springing to his feet. “I say, Tavernake!” he called out. 

But Tavernake heard nothing, or, if he heard, he took 
no notice. He walked out into the street and was lost 
among the hurrying throngs upon the pavements. 


/ 


•*4 


BOOK TWO 


CHAPTER I 

NEW HORIZONS 

Towards the sky-line, across the level country, stumbling 
and crawling over the deep-hewn dikes, wading sometimes 
through the mud-oozing swamp, Tavernake, who had left 
the small railway terminus on foot, made his way that 
night steadily seawards, as one pursued by some relent- 
less and indefatigable enemy. Twilight had fallen like 
a mantle around him, fallen over that great flat region 
of fens and pastureland and bog. Little patches of mist, 
harbingers of the coming obscurity, were being drawn 
now into the gradual darkness. Lights twinkled out 
from the far-scattered homesteads. Here and there a 
dog barked, some lonely bird seeking shelter called to 
its mate, but of human beings there seemed to be no one 
in sight save the solitary traveler. 

Tavernake was in grievous straits. His clothes were 
caked with mud, his hair tossed with the wind, his cheeks 
pale, his eyes set with the despair of that fierce upheaval 
through which he had passed. For many hours the tor- 
ture which had driven him back towards his birthplace 
had triumphed over his physical exhaustion. Now came 
the time, however, when the latter asserted itself. With 
a half-stifled moan he collapsed. Sheer fatigue induced 


284 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

a brief but merciful spell of uneasy slumber. He lay upon 
his back near one of the broader dikes, his arms out- 
stretched, his unseeing eyes turned toward the sky. The 
darkness deepened and passed away again before the 
light of the moon. When at last he sat up, it was a new 
world upon which he looked, a strange land, moonlit in 
places, yet full of shadowy somberness. He gazed wonder- 
ingly around — for the moment he had forgotten. Then 
memory came, and with memory once more the stab at 
his heart. He rose to his feet and went resolutely on his 
way. 

Almost until the dawn he walked, keeping as near as 
he could to that long monotonous line of telegraph posts, 
yet avoiding the road as much as possible. With the 
rising of the sun, he crept into a wayside hovel and lay 
there hidden for hours. Hunger and thirst seemed like 
things which had passed him by. It was sleep only which 
he craved,^ sleep and forgetfulness. 

Dusk was falling again before he found himself upon 
his feet, starting out once more upon this strangely 
thought-of pilgrimage. This time he kept to the road, 
plodding along with tired, dejected footsteps, which had 
in them still something of that restless haste which drove 
him ceaselessly onward as though he were indeed pos- 
sessed of some unquiet spirit. He was recovering now, 
however, a little of his natural common sense. He re- 
membered that he must have food and drink, and he 
sought them from the wayside public-house like an or- 
dinary traveler, conquering without any apparent effort 
that first invincible repugnance of his toward the face of 
any human being. Then on again across this strange land 
of windmills and spreading plains, until the darkness forced 
him to take shelter once more. That night he slept like a 


NEW HORIZONS 285 

child. With the morning, the fever had passed from his 
blood. A great wind blew in his face even as he opened his 
eyes, touched to wakefulness by the morning sun, a wind 
that came booming over the level places, salt with the 
touch of the ocean and fragrant with the perfume of many 
marsh plants. He was coming toward the sea now, and 
within a very short distance from where he had spent the 
night, he found a broad, shining river stealing into the 
land. With eager fingers he stripped himself and plunged 
in, diving again and again below the surface, swimming with 
long, lazy strokes backwards and forwards. Afterwards 
he lay down in the warm, dry grass, dressed himself slowly, 
and went on his way. The wind, which had increased 
now since the early morning, came thundering across the 
level land, bending the tops of the few scattered trees, 
sending the sails of the windmills spinning, bringing on 
its bosom now stronger than ever the flavor of the sea 
itself, salt and stimulating. Tavernake told himself that 
this was a new world into which he was coming. He 
would pass into its embrace and life would become a new 
thing. 

Towards evening with many a thrill of reminiscence, 
he descended a steep hill and walked into a queer time- 
forgotten village, whose scattered red-tiled cottages were 
built around an arm of the sea. Boldly enough now he 
entered the one inn which flaunted its sign upon the cob- 
bled street, and, taking a seat in the stone-floored kitchen, 
ate and drank and bespoke a bed. Later on, he strolled 
down to the quay and made friends with the few fishermen 
who were loitering there. They answered his questions 
readily, although he found it hard at first to pick up again 
the dialect of which he himself had once made use. The 
little place was scarcely changed. All progress, indeed. 


286 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 


seemed to have passed it by. There were a handful of 
fishermen, a boat-builder and a fish-curer in the village. 
There was no other industry save a couple of small farm- 
houses on the outskirts of the place, no railway within 
twelve miles. Tourists came seldom, excursionists never. 
In the half contented, half animal-like expression which 
seemed common to all the inhabitants, Tavernake read 
easily enough the history of their uneventful days. It 
was such a shelter as this, indeed, for which he had been 
searching. 

On the second night after his arrival, he walked with 
the boat-builder upon the wooden quay. The boat- 
builder’s name was Nicholls, and he was a man of some 
means, deacon of the chapel, with a fair connection as a 
jobbing carpenter, and possessor of the only horse and 
cart in the place. 

“Nicholls,” Tavernake said, “you don’t remember me, 
do you?” 

The boat-builder shook his head slowly and ponderously. 

“There was Richard Tavernake who farmed the low 
fields,” he remarked, reminiscently. “Maybe you’re a 
son of his. Now I come to think of it, he had a boy appren- 
ticed to the carpentering.” 

“I was the boy,” Tavernake answered. “I soon had 
enough of it and went to London.” 

“ You’m grown out of all knowledge,” Nicholls declared, 
“ but I mind you now. So you ’ve been in London all these 
years?” 

“I’ve been in London,” Tavernake admitted, “and I 
think, of the two, that Sprey-by-the-Sea is the better 
place.” 

“Sprey is well enough,” the boat-builder confessed, 
“well enough for a man who is n’t set on change.” 


NEW HORIZONS 


287 

“Change,” Tavernake asserted, grimly, “is an over- 
rated joy. I have had too much of it in my life. I think 
that I should like to stay here for some time.” 

The boat-builder was surprised, but he was a man of 
heavy and deliberate turn of mind and he did not commit 
himself to speech. Tavernake continued. 

“I used to know something of carpentering in my 
younger days,” he said, “and I don’t think that I have 
forgotten it all. I wonder if I could find anything to do 
down here?” 

Matthew Nicholls stroked his beard thoughtfully. 

“The folk round about are not over partial to strangers,” 
he observed, “and you’m been away so long I reckon 
there’s not many as’d recollect you. And as for carpen- 
tering jobs, there’s Tom Lake over at Lesser Blakeney 
and his brother down at Brancaster, besides me on the 
spot, as you might say. It ’s a poor sort of opening there ’d 
be, if you ask my opinion, especially for one like yourself, 
as ’’as got education.” 

“I should be satisfied with very little,” Tavernake 
persisted. “I want to work with my hands. I should 
like to forget for a time that I have had any education 
at aU.” 

“That do seem mightily queer to me,” Nicholls re- 
marked, thoughtfully. 

Tavernake smiled. 

“Come,” he said, “it isn’t altogether unnatural. I 
want to make something with my hands. I think that 
I could build boats. Why do you not take me into your 
yard? I could do no harm and I should not want much 
pay.” 

Matthew Nicholls stroked his beard once more and 
this time he counted fifty, as was his custom when con- 


288 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

fronted with a diflScult matter. He had no need to do 
anything of the sort, for nothing in the world would have 
induced him to make up his mind on the spot as to so 
weighty a proposal. 

“It’s not likely that you’re serious,” he objected. 
“You are a young man and strong-limbed, I should 
imagine, but you’ve education — one can tell it by the 
way you pronounce your words. It’s but a poor living, 
after all, to be made here.” 

“I like the place,” Tavernake declared doggedly. “I 
am a man of small needs. I want to work all through the 
day, work till I am tired enough to sleep at night, work 
till my bones ache and my arms are sore. I suppose you 
could give me enough to live on in a humble way?” 

“Take a bite of supper with me,” Nicholls answered. 
“In these serious affairs, my daughter has always her 
say. We will put the matter before her and see what she 
thinks of it.” 

They lingered about the quay until the light from Wells 
Lighthouse flashed across the sea, and until in the distance 
they could hear the moaning of the incoming tide as it 
rippled over the bar and began to fill the tidal way which 
stretched to the wooden pier itself. Then the two men 
made their way along the village street, through a field, 
and into the little yard over which stood the sign of 
“Matthew Nicholls, Boat-Builder.” At one corner of 
the yard was the cottage in which he lived. 

“You’ll come right in, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, the 
instincts of hospitality stirring wdthin him as soon as they 
had passed through the gate. “We will talk of this matter 
together, you and me and the daughter.” 

Tavernake seemed, on his introduction to the house- 
hold, like a man unused to feminine society. Perhaps 


NEW HORIZONS 


289 

he did not expect to find such a type of her sex as Ruth 
Nicholls in such a remote neighborhood. She was thin, and ^ 
her cheeks were paler than those of any of the other young 
women whom he had seen about the village. Her eyes, 
too, were darker, and her speech different. There was 
nothing about her which reminded him in the least of the 
child with whom he had played. Tavernake watched her 
intently. Presently the idea came to him that she, too, 
was seeking shelter. 

Supper was a simple meal, but it was well and deftly 
served. The girl had the gift of moving noiselessly. She 
was quick without giving the impression of haste. To 
their guest she was courteous, but her recollection of him 
appeared to be slight, and his coming but a matter of 
slight interest. After she had cleared the cloth, however, 
and produced a jar of tobacco, her father bade her sit 
down with them. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” he began, ponderously, “is think- 
ing some of settling down in these parts, Ruth.” 

She inclined her head gravely. 

“It appears,” her father continued, “that he is sick and 
tired of the city and of head-work. He is wishful to come 
into the yard with me, if so be that we could find enough 
work for two.” 

The girl looked at their visitor, and for the first time 
there was a measure of curiosity in her earnest gaze. 
Tavernake was, in his way, good enough to look upon. 
He was well-built, his shoulders and physique all spoke 
of strength. His features were firmly cut, although his 
general expression was gloomy. But for a certain morose- 
ness, an uncouth'ness which he seemed to cultivate, he 
might even have been deemed good-looking. 

“Mr. Tavernake would make a great mistake,” she 


290 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

said, hesitatingly. “ It is not well for those who have 
brains to work with their hands. It is not a place for those 
to live who have been out in the world. At most seasons 
of the year it is but a wilderness. Sometimes there is 
little enough to do, even for father.” 

“I am not ambitious for over-much work or for over- 
much money. Miss Nicholls,” Tavemake replied. “I 
will be frank with you both. Things out in the world 
there went ill with me; it was not my fault, but they went 
ill with me. What ambitions I had are finished — for 
the present, at any rate. I want to rest, I want to work 
with my hands, to grow my muscles again, to feel my 
strength, to believe that there is something effective in 
the world I can do. I have had a shock, a disappointment, 
— call it what you like.” 

The old man Nicholls nodded deliberately. 

“Well,” he pronounced, “ it’s a big change to make. 
I never thought of help in the yard before. When there ’s 
been more than I could do, I ’ve just let it go. Come for 
a week on trial, Leonard Tavernake. If we are of any 
use to one another, we shall soon know of it.” 

The girl, who had been looking out into the night, 
came back. 

“You are making a mistake, Mr. Tavemake,” she 
said. “You are too young and strong to have finished 
your battle.” 

He looked at her steadily and sighed. It was only too 
obvious that hers had been fought and lost. 

“Perhaps,” he replied softly, “you are right. Perhaps 
it is only the rest I want. We shall see.” 


CHAPTER II 


THE SIMPLE LIFE 

So Tavemake became a boat-builder. Summer passed 
into winter and this hamlet by the sea seemed, indeed, 
as though it might have been one of the forgotten spots 
upon the earth. Save for that handful of cottages, the 
two farmhouses a few hundred yards inland, and the 
deserted Hall half-hidden in its grove of pine trees, there 
was no dwelling-place nor any sign of human habitation 
for many miles. For eight hours a day Tavernake worked, 
mostly out of doors, in the little yard which hung over 
the beach. Sometimes he rested from his labors and 
looked seaward, looked around him as though rejoicing 
in that unbroken solitude, the emptiness of the gray 
ocean, the loneliness of the land behind. What things 
there were which lay back in the cells of his memory, no 
person there knew, for he spoke of his past to no one, not 
even to Ruth. He was a good workman, and he lived 
the simple life of those others without complaint or weari- 
ness. There was nothing in his manner to denote that he 
had been used to anything else. The village had accepted 
him without question. It was only Ruth who still, gravely 
but kindly enough, disapproved of his presence. 

One day she came and sat with him as he smoked his 
after-dinner pipe, leaning against an overturned boat, 
with his eyes fixed upon that line of gray breakers. 


292 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“You spend a good deal of your time thinking, Mr. 
Tavernake,” she remarked quietly. 

“Too much,” he admitted at once, “too much. Miss 
Nicholls. I should be better employed planing down that 
mast there.” 

“You know that I did not mean that,” she said, reprov- 
ingly, “only sometimes you make me — shall I confess 
it.^ — almost angry with you.” 

He took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the 
ashes. As they fell on the ground so he looked at them. 

“All thought is wasted time,” he declared, grimly, “all 
thought of the past. The past is like those ashes; it is 
dead and finished.” 

She shook her head. 

“Not always,” she replied. “Sometimes the past 
comes to life again. Sometimes the bravest of us quit 
the fight too soon.” 

He looked at her questioningly, almost fiercely. Her 
words, however, seemed spoken without intent. 

“So far as mine is concerned,” he pronounced, “it is 
finished. There is a memorial stone laid upon it, and no 
resurrection is possible.” 

“You cannot tell,” she answered. “No one can tell.” 

He turned back to his work almost rudely, but she 
stayed by his side. 

“Once,” she remarked, reflectively, “I, too, went a 
little way into the world. I was a school-teacher at 
Norwich. I was very fond of some one there; we were 
engaged. Then my mother died and I had to come back 
to look after father.” 

He nodded. 

“Well?” 

“We are a long way from Norwich,” she continued. 


THE SIMPLE LIFE 


293 

quietly. “Soon after I left, the man whom I was fond 
of grew lonely. He found some one else.” 

“You have forgotten him?” Tavernake asked, quickly. 

“I shall never forget him,” she replied. “That part 
of life is finished, but if ever my father can spare me, I 
shall go back to my work again. Sometimes those work 
the best and accomplish the most who carry the scars 
of a great wound.” 

She turned away to the house, and after that it seemed 
to him that she avoided him for a time. At any rate, 
she made no further attempt to win his confidence. Pro- 
pinquity, however, was too much for both of them. He 
was a lodger under her father’s roof. It was scarcely 
possible for them to keep apart. Saturdays and Sundays 
they walked sometimes for miles across the frost-bound 
marshes, in the quickening atmosphere of the darkening 
afternoons, when the red sun sank early behind the hills, 
and the twilight grew shorter every day. They watched 
the sea-birds together and saw the wild duck come down 
to the pools; felt the glow of exercise burn their cheeks; 
felt, too, that common and nameless exultation engendered 
by their loneliness in the solitude of these beautiful empty 
places. In the evenings they often read together, for 
Nicholls, although no drinker, never missed his hour or 
so at the village inn. Tavernake, in time, began to find 
a sort of comfort in her calm, sexless companionship. 
He knew very well that he was to her as she was to him, 
something human, something that filled an empty place, 
yet something without direct personality. Little by 
little he felt the bitterness in his heart grow less. Then a 
late spring — late, at any rate, in this quaint corner of 
the world — stole like some wonderful enchantment 
across the face of the moors and the marshes. Yellow 


294 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

gorse starred with golden clumps the broT\Ti hillside; 
wild lavender gleamed in patches across the silver-streaked 
marshes; the dead hedges came blossoming into life. 
Crocuses, long lines of yellow and purple crocuses, broke 
from waxy buds into starlike blossoms along the front 
of Matthew Nicholls’s garden. And with the coming of 
spring, Tavernake found himself suddenly able to think 
of the past. It was a new phase of life. He could sit 
down and think of those things that had happened to 
him, without fearing to be wrecked by the storm. Often 
he sat out looking seaward, thinking of the days when he 
had first met Beatrice, of those early days of pleasant 
companionship, of the marvelous avidity with which he 
had learned from her. Only when Elizabeth’s face stole 
into the foreground did he spring from his place and turn 
back to his work. 

One day Tavernake sat poring over the weekly local 
paper, reading it more out of curiosity than from any 
real interest. Suddenly a familiar name caught his eye. 
His heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, and the 
page swam before his eyes. Quickly he recovered him- 
self and read: 

THE QUEEN’S HALL, UNTHANK ROAD, 
NORWICH 

Twice Daily. 

Professor Franklin 
assisted by his daughter, 

Miss Beatrice Franklin, 
will give his refined and marvelous entertain- 
ment, comprising hypnotism, feats of second- 
sight never before attempted on any stage, 
THOUGHT-READING, and a BRIEF LECTURE Upon the 

connection between ancient superstitions and 


295 


THE SIMPLE LIFE 

the EXTRAORDINARY DEVELOPMENTS OF THE NEW 
SCIENCE. 

Professor Franklin can be consulted pri- 
vately, by letter or by appointment. Address 
for this week — The Golden Cow, Bell’s Lane, 
Norwich. 

Twice Taveraake read the announcement. Then he 
went out and found Ruth. 

“Ruth,” he told her, “there is something calling me 
back, perhaps for good.” 

For the first time she gave him her hand. 

“Now you are talking like a man once more,” she 
declared. “ Go and seek it. Come back and say good-bye 
to us, if you will, but throw your tools into the sea.” 

Tavernake laughed and looked across at his workshop. 

“I don’t believe,” he said, “that you’ve any confidence 
in my boat.” 

“I’m not sure that I would sail with you,” she answered, 
“even if you ever finished it. A laborer’s work for a 
laborer’s hand. You must go back to the other things.” 


CHAPTER III 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 

The professor set down his tumbler upon the zinc-rimmed 
counter. He was very little changed except that he had 
grown a shade stouter, and there was perhaps more color 
in his cheeks. He carried himself, too, like a man who 
believes in himself. In the small public-house he was, 
without doubt, an impressive figure. 

“My friends,” he remarked, “our host’s whiskey is 
good. At the same time, I must not forget — ” 

“You’ll have one with me, Professor,” a youth at his 
elbow interrupted. “Two special whiskies, miss, if you 
please.” 

The professor shrugged his shoulders — it was a gesture 
which he wished every one to understand. He was suffer- 
ing now the penalty for a popularity which would not be 
denied! 

“You are very kind, sir,” he said, “very kind, indeed. 
As I was about to say, I must not forget that in less than 
half an hour I am due upon the stage. It does not do 
to disappoint one’s audience, sir. It is a poor place, this 
music-hall, but it is full, they tell me packed from floor 
to ceiling. At eight-thirty I must show myself.” 

“A marvelous turn, too. Professor,” declared one of 
the young men by whom he was surrounded. 

“I thank you, sir,” the professor replied, turning 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 


297 

towards the speaker, glass in hand. “There have been 
others who have paid me a similar compliment; others, 
I may say, not unconnected with the aristocracy of your 
country — not unconnected either, I might add,” he 
went on, “with the very highest in the land, those who 
from their exalted position have never failed to shower 
favors upon the more fortunate sons of our profession. 
The science of which I am to some extent the pioneer — 
not a drop more, my young friend. Say, I’m in dead 
earnest this time! No more, indeed.” 

The young man in knickerbockers who had just come 
in banged the head of his cane upon the counter. 

“You’ll never refuse me. Professor,” he asserted, con- 
fidently. “I’m an old supporter, I am. I’ve seen you 
in Blackburn and Manchester, and twice here. Just as 
wonderful as ever! And that young lady of yours. Pro- 
fessor, begging your pardon if she is your daughter, as 
no doubt she is, why, she’s a nut and no mistake.” 

The professor sighed. He was in his element but he 
was getting uneasy at the flight of time. 

“My young friend,” he said, “your face is not familiar 
to me but I cannot refuse your kindly offer. It must be 
the last, however, absolutely the last.” 

Then Tavernake, directed here from the music-hall, 
pushed open the swing door and entered. The professor 
set down his glass untasted. Tavernake came slowly 
across the room. 

“You haven’t forgotten me, then. Professor?” he 
remarked, holding out his hand. 

The professor welcomed him a little limply; something 
of the bombast had gone out of his manner. Tavemake’s 
arrival had reminded him of things which he had only 
too easily forgotten. 


298 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“This is very surprising,” he faltered, “very surprising 
indeed. Do you live in these parts?” 

“Not far away,” Tavernake answered. “I saw your 
announcement in the papers.” 

The professor nodded. 

“Yes,” he said, “I am on the war-path again. I tried 
resting but I got fat and lazy, and the people would n’t 
have it, sir,” he continued, recovering very quickly some- 
thing of his former manner. “The number of offers I 
got through my agents by every post was simply astound- 
ing — astounding! ” 

“I am looking forward to seeing your performance 
this evening,” Tavernake said politely. “In the mean- 
time — ” 

“I know what you are thinking of,” the professor in- 
terrupted. “Well, well, give me your arm and we will 
walk down to the hall together. My friends,” the pro- 
fessor added, turning round, “I wish you all a good-night! ” 

Then the door was pushed half-way open and Taver- 
nake’s heart gave a jump. It was Beatrice who stood 
there, very pale, very tired, and much thinner even than 
the Beatrice of the boarding-house, but still Beatrice. 

“Father,” she exclaimed, “do you know that it is 
nearly — ” 

Then she saw Tavernake and said no more. She 
seemed to sway a little, and Tavernake, taking a quick 
step forward, grasped her by the hands. 

“Dear sister,” he cried, “you have been ill!” 

She was herself again almost in a moment. 

“111? Never in my life,” she replied. “Only I have 
been hurrying — we are late already for the performance 
— and seeing you there, well, it was quite a shock, you 
know. Walk down with us and tell me all about it. 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 


299 

Tell us what you are doing here — or rather, don’t talk 
for a moment! It is all so amazing.” 

They turned down the narrow cobbled street, the pro- 
fessor walking in the middle of the roadway, swinging 
his cane, a very imposing and wonderful figure, with the 
tails of his frock-coat streaming in the wind, his long hair 
only half-hidden by his hat. He hummed a tune to 
himself and affected not to take any notice of the other 
two. Then Tavernake suddenly realized that he had 
done a cowardly action in leaving her without a word. 

“There is so much to ask,” she began at last, “but 
you have come back.” 

She looked at his workman’s clothes. 

“What have you been doing?” she asked, sharply. 

“Working,” Tavernake answered, “good work, too. 
I am the better for it. Don’t mind my clothes, Beatrice. 
I have been mad for a time, but after all it has been a 
healthy madness.” 

“It was a strange thing that you did,” she said, — “you 
disappeared.” 

He nodded. 

“Some day,” he told her, “I may, perhaps, be able to 
make you understand. Just now I don’t think that I 
could.” 

“It was Elizabeth?” she whispered, softly. 

“It was Elizabeth,” he admitted. 

They said no more then till they reached the hall. 
She stopped at the door and put out her hand timidly. 

“I shall see you afterwards?” she ventured. 

“Do you mind my coming to the performance?” he 
asked. 

She hesitated. 

“A few moments ago,” she remarked, smiling, “I was^ 


300 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

dreading your coming. Now I think that you had better. 
It will be all over at ten o’clock, and I shall look for you 
outside. You are living in Norwich?” 

“I shall be here for to-night, at any rate,” he answered. 

“Very well, then,” she said, “afterwards we will have 
a talk.” 

Tavernake passed through the scattered knot of loiter- 
ers at the door and bought a seat for himself in the little 
music-hall, which, notwithstanding the professor’s boast, 
was none too well filled. It was a place of the old-fashioned 
sort, with small tables in the front, and waiters hurrying 
about serving drinks. The people were of the lowest 
order, and the atmosphere of the room was thick with 
tobacco smoke. A young woman in a fiaxen wig and 
boy’s clothes was singing a popular ditty, marching up 
and down the stage, and interspersing the words of her 
song with grimaces and appropriate action. Tavernake 
sat down with a barely-smothered groan. He was begin- 
ning to realize the tragedy upon which he had stumbled. 
A comic singer followed, who in a dress suit several sizes 
too large for him gave an imitation of a popular Irish 
comedian. Then the curtain went up and the professor 
was seen, standing in front of the curtain and bowing 
solemnly to a somewhat unresponsive audience. A minute 
later Beatrice came quietly in and sat by his side. There 
was nothing new about the show. Tavernake had seen 
the same thing before, with the exception that the pro- 
fessor was perhaps a little behind the majority of his 
fellow-craftsmen. The performance was finished in dead 
silence, and after it was over, Beatrice cam% to the front 
and sang. She was a very unusual figure in such a place, 
in a plain black evening gown, with black gloves and no 
jewelry, but they encored her heartily, and she sang a 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 


301 

song from the musical comedy in which Tavernake had 
first seen her. A sudden wave of reminiscence stirred 
within him. His thoughts seemed to go back to the 
night when he had waited for her outside the theatre and 
they had had supper at Imano’s, to the day when he had 
left the boarding-house and entered upon his new life. 
It was more like a dream than ever now. 

He rose and quitted the place immediately she had 
finished, waiting in the street until she appeared. She 
came out in a few minutes. 

“Father is going to a supper,” she announced, “at 
the inn where he has a room for receiving people. Will 
you come home with me for an hour? Then we can go 
round and fetch him.” 

“I should like to,” Tavernake answered. 

Her lodgings were only a few steps away — a strange 
little house in a narrow street. She opened the front 
door and ushered him in. 

“You understand, of course,” she said, smiling, “that 
we have abandoned the haunts of luxury altogether.” 

He looked around at the tiny room with its struggling 
fire and horsehair sofa, linoleum for carpet, oleographs for 
pictures, and he shivered, not for his own sake but for 
hers. On the sideboard were some bread and cheese and 
a bottle of ginger beer. 

“Please imagine,” she begged, taking the pins from 
her hat, “that you are in those dear comfortable rooms 
of ours down at Chelsea. Draw that easy-chair up to 
what there is of the fire, and listen. You smoke still?” 

“I have taken to a pipe,” he admitted. 

“Then light it and listen,” she went on, smoothing her 
hair for a minute in front of the looking-glass. “You 
want to know about Elizabeth, of course.” 


302 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Yes,” he said, “I want to know.” 

“Elizabeth, on the whole,” Beatrice continued, “got 
out of all her troubles very well. Her husband’s people 
were wild with her, but Elizabeth was very clever. They 
were never able to prove that she had exercised more 
than proper control over poor Wenham. He died two 
months after they took him to the asylum. They offered 
Elizabeth a lump sum to waive all claims to his estate, 
and she accepted it. I think that she is now somewhere 
on the Continent.” 

“And you?” he asked. “Why did you leave the 
theatre?” 

“It was a matter of looking after my father,” she 
explained. “You see, while he was there with Elizabeth 
he had too much money and nothing to do. The conse- 
quence was that he was always — well, I suppose I had 
better say it — drinking too much, and he was losing all 
his desire for work. I made him promise that if I could 
get some engagements he would come away with me, 
so I went to an agent and we have been touring like this 
for quite a long time.” 

“But what a life for you!” Tavernake exclaimed. 
“ Could n’t you have stayed on at the theatre and found 
him something in London?” 

She shook her head. 

“In London,” she said, “he would never have got out 
of his old habits. And then,” she went on, hesitatingly, 
“you understand that the public want something else 
besides the hypnotism — ” 

Tavernake interrupted her ruthlessly. 

“Of course I understand,” he declared, “I was there 
to-night. I understood at once why you were not very 
anxious for me to go. The people cared nothing at all 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 


303 

about your father’s performance. They simply waited 
for you. You would get the same money if you went 
round without him.” 

She nodded, a trifle shamefacedly. 

“I am so afraid some one will tell him,” she confessed. 
“They nearly always ask me to leave out his part of the 
performance. They have even offered me more money 
if I would come alone. But you see how it is. He believes 
in himself, he thinks he is very clever and he believes that 
the public like his show. It is the only thing which helps 
him to keep a little self-respect. He thinks that my 
singing is almost unnecessary.” 

Tavernake looked into that faint glimmer of miserable 
fire. He was conscious of a curious feeling in his throat. 
How little he knew of life! The pathos of what she had 
told him, the thought of her bravely traveling the country 
and singing at third-rate music-halls, never taking any 
credit to herself, simply that her father might still believe 
himself a man of talent, appealed to him irresistibly. 
He suddenly held out his hand. 

“Poor little Beatrice!” he exclaimed. “Dear little 
sister ! ” 

The hand he gripped was cold, she avoided his eyes. 

“ You — you must n’t,” she murmured. “ Please don’t ! ” 

He held out his other hand and half rose, but her lips 
suddenly ceased to quiver and she waved him back. 

“No, Leonard,” she begged, “please don’t do or say 
anything foolish. Since we do meet again, though, like 
this, I am going to ask you one question. What made 
you come to me and ask me to marry you that day ” 

He looked away; something in her eyes accused him. 

“Beatrice,” he confessed, “I was a thick-headed igno- 
rant fool, without understanding. I came to you for safety* 


304 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

I was afraid of Elizabeth, I was afraid of what I felt for 
her. I wanted to escape from it.” 

She smiled piteously. 

“It wasn’t a very brave thing to do, was it?” she 
faltered. 

“It was mean,” he admitted. “It was worse than that. 
But, Beatrice,” he went on, “I was missing you horribly. 
You did leave a big empty place when you went away. 
I am not going to excuse myself about Elizabeth. I lived 
through a time of the strangest, most marvelous emotions 
one could dream of. Then the thing came to an end and I 
felt as though the bottom had gone out of life. I suppose — 
I loved her,” he continued hesitatingly. “I don’t know. 
I only know that she filled every thought of my brain, 
that she lived in every beat of my heart, that I would have 
gone down into Hell to help her. And then I understood. 
That morning she told me something of the truth about 
herself, not meaning to — unconsciously — justifying her- 
self all the time, not realizing that every word she said 
was damnable. And then there did n’t seem to be anything 
else left, and I had only one desire. I turned my back 
upon everything and I went back to the place where I 
was born, a little fishing village. For the last thirty miles 
I walked. I shall never forget it. When I got there, what 
I wanted was work, work with my hands. I wanted to 
build something, to create anything that I could labor 
upon. I became a boat-builder — I have been a boat- 
builder ever since.” 

“And now?” she asked. 

“Beatrice!” 

She turned and faced him. She looked into his eyes 
very searchingly, very wistfully. 

“Beatrice,” he said, “I ask you once more, only differ- 


OLD FRIENDS MEET 305 

ently. Will you marry me now? I’ll find some work. 
I’ll make enough money for us. Do you remember,” he 
went on, “how I used to talk, how I used to feel that I 
had only to put forth my strength and I could win any- 
thing? I’ll feel like that again, Beatrice, if you’ll come 
to me.” 

She shook her head slowly. She looked away from 
him with a sigh. She had the air of one who has sought 
for something which she has failed to find. 

“You must n’t think of that again, Leonard,” she told 
him. “It would be quite impossible. This is the only 
way I can save my father. We have a tour that will take 
us the best part of another year.” 

“But you are sacrificing yourself!” he declared. “I 
will keep your father.” 

“It isn’t that only,” she replied. “For one thing, I 
could n’t let you; and for another, it is n’t only the money, 
it’s the work. As long as he’s made to think that the 
public expect him every night, he keeps off drinking too 
much. There is nothing else in the whole world which 
would keep him steady. Don’t look as though you did n’t 
understand, Leonard. He is my father, you know, and 
there is n’t anything more terrible than to see any one 
who has a claim on us give way to anything like that. 
You may n’t quite approve, but please believe that I am 
doing what I feel to be right.” 

The little fire had gone out. Beatrice glanced at the 
clock and put on her jacket again. 

“I am sorry, Leonard,” she said, “but I think I must 
go and fetch father now. You can walk with me there, 
if you will. It has been very good to see you again. For 
the rest I don’t know what to say to you. Do you think 
that it is quite what you were meant for — to build boats? ” 


3o6 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“I don’t seem to have any other ambition,” he answered, 
wearily. “When I read in the paper this morning that 
you and your father were here, things seemed suddenly 
different. I came at once. I did n’t know what I wanted 
until I saw you, but I know now, and it is n’t any good.” 

“No good at all,” she declared cheerfully. “It won’t 
be very long, Leonard, before something else comes along 
to stir you. I don’t think you were meant to build boats 
all your life.” 

He rose and took up his hat. She was waiting for him 
at the door. Again they passed down the narrow street. 

“Tell, me, Beatrice,” he begged, “is it because you 
don’t like me well enough that you won’t listen to what 
I ask?” 

For a moment she half closed her eyes as though in pain. 
Then she laughed, not perhaps very naturally. They 
were standing now by the door of the public house. 

“Leonard,” she said, “you are very young in years but 
you are a baby in experience. Mind, there are other 
reasons why I could not — would not dream of marrying 
you, other reasons which are absolutely sufficient, but — 
do you know that you have asked me twice and you have 
never once said that you cared, that you have never once 
looked as though you cared? No, don’t, please,” she 
interrupted, “don’t explain anything. You see, a woman 
always knows — too well, sometimes.” 

She nodded, and passed in through the swinging-doors. 
Standing out there in the narrow, crooked street, Taver- 
nake heard the clapping and applause which greeted her 
entrance, he heard her father’s voice. Some one struck 
a note at the piano — she was going to sing. Very slowly 
he turned away and walked down the cobbled hill. 


CHAPTER IV 


Pritchard’s good news 

Late in the afternoon of the following day, Ruth came 
home from the village and found Tavernake hard at work 
on his boat. She put down her basket and stopped by 
his side. 

“So you are back again,” she remarked. 

“Yes, I am back again.” 

“And nothing has happened?” 

“Nothing has happened,” he assented, wearily. “Noth- 
ing ever will happen now.” 

She smiled. 

“You mean that you will stay here and build boats all 
your life?” 

“That is what I mean to do,” he announced. 

She laid her hand upon his shoulder. 

“Don’t believe it, Leonard,” she said. “There is other 
work for you in the world somewhere, just as there is for 
me.” 

He shook his head and she picked up her basket again, 
smiling. 

“Your time will come as it comes to the rest of us,” she 
declared, cheerfully. “You won’t want to sit here and 
bury your talents in the sands all your days. Have you 
heard what is going to happen to me?” 

“No! Something good, I hope.” 


3o8 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“My father’s favorite niece is coming to live with us — 
there are seven of them altogether, and farming does n’t 
pay like it used to, so Margaret is coming here. Father 
says that if she is as handy as she used to be I may go back 
to the schools almost at once.” 

Tavernake was silent for a moment. Then he got up 
and threw down his tools. 

“ Great Heavens ! ” he exclaimed. “ If I am not becoming 
the most selfish brute that ever breathed! Do you know, 
the first thought I had was that I should miss you? You 
are right, young woman, I must get out of this.” 

She disappeared into the house, smiling, and Tavernake 
called out to Nicholls, who was sitting on the wall. 

“Mr. Nicholls,” he asked, “how much notice do you 
want?” 

Matthew Nicholls removed his pipe from his mouth. 

“Why, I don’t know that I’m particular,” he replied, 
“being as you want to go. Between you and me, I’m 
gettin’ fat and lazy since you came. There ain’t enough 
work for two, and that’s all there is to it, and being as 
you’re young and active, why, I’ve left it to you, and 
look at my arms.” 

He held them up. 

“Used to be all muscle, now they’re nothin’ but bloomin’ 
pap. And no ’but two glasses of beer a day extra have 
I drunk, just to pass the time. You can stay if you will, 
young man, but you can go out fishin’ and leave me the 
work, and I’ll pay you just the same, for I’m not saying 
that I don’t like your company. Or you can go when 
you please, and that’s the end of it.” 

Matthew Nicholls spat upon the stones and replaced 
his pipe in his mouth. Tavernake came in and sat down 
by his side. 


PRITCHARD’S GOOD NEWS 


309 


“Look here,” he said, “I believe you are right. I’ll 
stay another week but I’ll take things easy. You get 
on with the boat now. I’ll sit here and have a smoke.” 

Nicholls grunted but obeyed, and for the next few days 
Tavernake loafed. On his return one afternoon from a 
lorig walk, he saw a familiar figure sitting upon the sea 
wall in front of the workshop, a familiar figure but a 
strange one in these parts. It was Mr. Pritchard, in an 
American felt hat, and smoking a very black cigar. He 
leaned over and nodded to Tavernake, who was staring 
at him aghast. 

“Hallo, old man!” he called out. “Run you to earth, 
you see!” 

“Yes, I see!” Tavernake exclaimed. 

“Come right along up here and let’s talk,” Pritchard 
continued. 

Tavernake obeyed. Pritchard looked him over approv- 
ingly. Tavernake was roughly dressed in those days, but 
as a man he had certainly developed. 

“ Say, you ’re looking fine,” his visitor remarked. “ What 
would n’t I give for that color and those shoulders!” 

“It is a healthy life,” Tavernake admitted. “Do you 
mean that you’ve come down here to see me?” 

“That’s so,” Pritchard announced; “down here to see 
you, and for no other reason. Not but that the scenery 
is n’t all it should be, and that sort of thing,” he went on, 
“but I am not putting up any bluff about it. It’s you I 
am here to talk to. Are you ready? Shall I go straight 
ahead?” 

“ If you please,” Tavernake said, slowly filling his pipe. 

“You dropped out of things pretty sudden,” Pritchard 
continued. “It did n’t take me much guessing to reckon 
up why. Between you and me, you are not the first man 


310 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

who ’s been up against it on account of that young woman. 
Don’t stop me,” he begged. “I know how you’ve been 
feeling. It was a right good idea of yours to come here. 
Others before you have tried the shady side of New York 
and Paris, and it ’s the wrong treatment. It ’s Hell, that ’s 
what it is, for them. Now that young woman — we ’ ve 
got to speak of her — is about the most beautiful and 
the most fascinating of her sex — I ’ll grant that to start 
with — but she is n’t worth the life of a snail, much less 
the life of a strong man.” 

“You are quite right,” Tavernake confessed, shortly. 
“ I know I was a fool — a fool ! If I could think of any 
adjective that would meet the case, I’d use it, but there 
it is. I chucked things and I came here. You have n’t 
come down to tell me your opinion of me, I suppose?” 

“Not by any manner of means,” Pritchard admitted. 
“I came down first to tell you that you were a fool, if it 
was necessary. Since you know it, it isn’t. We’ll pass 
on to the next stage, and that is, what are you going to 
do about it?” 

“It is in my mind at the present moment,” Tavernake 
announced, “to leave here. The only trouble is, I am 
not very keen about London.” 

Pritchard nodded thoughtfully. 

“That’s all right,” he agreed. “London’s no place for 
a man, anyway. You don’t want to learn the usual tricks 
of money-making. Money that’s made in the cities is 
mostly made with stained fingers. I have a different sort 
of proposal to make.” 

“Go ahead,” Tavernake said. “What is it?” 

“A new country,” Pritchard declared, altering the angle 
of his cigar, “a virgin land, mountains and valleys, great 
rivers to be crossed, all sorts of cold and heat to be borne 


PRITCHARD’S GOOD NEWS 311 

with, a land rich with minerals — some say gold, but 
never mind that. There is oil in parts, there ’s tin, there’s 
coal, and there’s thousands and thousands of miles of 
forest. You’re a surveyor?” 

“Passed all my exams,” Tavernake agreed tersely. 

“You are the man for out yonder,” Pritchard insisted. 
“ I ’ve two years’ vacation — dead sick of this city life I 
am — and I am going to put you on the track of it. You 
don’t know much about prospecting yet, I reckon?” 

“Nothing at all!” 

“You soon shall,” Pritchard went on. “We’ll start 
from Winnipeg. A few horses, some guides, and a couple 
of tents. We’ll spend twenty weeks, my friend, without 
seeing a town. What do you think of that?” 

“Gorgeous!” Tavernake muttered. 

“Twenty weeks we’ll strike westward. I know the 
way to set about the whole job. I know one or two of 
the capitalists, too, and if we don’t map out some of the 
grandest estates in British Columbia, why, my name 
ain’t Pritchard.” 

“But I haven’t a penny in the world,” Tavernake 
objected. 

“That’s where you’re lying,” Pritchard remarked, 
pulling a newspaper from his pocket. “See the adver- 
tisement for yourself: ^Leonard Tavernake , something to 
his advantaged Well, down I went to those lawyers — 
your old lawyer it was — Martin. I told him I was on 
your track, and he said — ‘For Heaven’s sake, send the 
fellow along!’ Say, Tavernake, he made me laugh the 
way he described your bursting in upon him and telling 
him to take your land for his costs, and walking out of the 
room like something almighty. Why, he worked that 
thing so that they had to buy your land, and they took 


312 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

him into partnership. He’s made a pot of money, and 
needs no costs from you, and there’s the money for your 
land and what he had of yours besides, waiting for you.” 

Tavernake smoked stolidly at his pipe. His eyes were 
out seaward, but his heart was beating to a new and 
splendid music. To start life again, a man’s life, out in 
the solitudes, out in the great open spaces! It was gor- 
geous, this! He turned round and grasped Pritchard by 
the shoulder. 

“I say,’^ he exclaimed, “why are you doing all this for 
me, Pritchard?” 

Pritchard laughed. 

“You did me a good turn,” he said, “and you’re a 
man. You’ve the pluck — that’s what I like. You 
knew nothing, you were as green and ignorant as a young 
man from behind the counter of a country shop, but, my 
God! you’d got the right stuff, and I meant getting 
even with you if I could. You’ll leave here with me 
to-morrow, and in three weeks we sail.” 

Ruth came smiling out from the house. 

“Won’t you bring your friend in to supper, Mr. Taver- 
nake? ” she begged. “ It ’s good news, I hope? ” she added, 
lowering her voice a little. 

“It’s the best,” Tavernake declared, “the best!” 


CHAPTER V 


BEATRICE REFUSES 

A WEEK later Tavernake was in London. A visit to his 
friend Mr. Martin had easily proved the truth of Pritch- 
ard’s words, and he found himself in possession of a sum 
of money at least twice as great as he had anticipated. 
He stayed at a cheap hotel in the Strand and made pur- 
chases under Pritchard’s supervision. For the first few 
days he was too busy for reflection. Then Pritchard let 
him alone while he ran over to Paris, and Tavernake 
suddenly realized that he was in the city to which he 
had thought never to return. He passed the back of the 
theatre where he had waited for Beatrice, he looked 
up at the entrance of the Milan Court; he lunched alone, 
and with a curious mixture of feelings, at the little res- 
taurant where he had supped with Beatrice. It was over, 
that part of his life, over and finished. Yet, with his 
natural truthfulness, he never attempted to disguise 
from himself the pain at his heart. Three times in one 
day he found himself, under some pretext or another, 
in Imano’s Restaurant. Once, in the middle of the 
street, he burst into a fit of laughter. It was while Pritch- 
ard was in London, and he asked him a question. 

“Pritchard,” he remarked, “you are a man of experi- 
ence. Did any one ever care for two women at the same 
time?” 


314 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

Pritchard removed his cigar from his teeth and stared 
at his companion. 

“Why, my young friend,” he replied, “IVe found no 
trouble myself in being fond of a dozen.” 

Tavernake smiled and said no more. Pritchard was 
one of the good fellows of the world, but there were things 
which were hidden from him. Yet Tavernake, who had 
fallen into a habit, during his solitude, of analyzing his 
sensations, was puzzled by this one circumstance, that 
when he thought of Elizabeth, though his heart never 
failed to beat more quickly, the sense of shame generally 
stole over him; and when he thought of Beatrice, a 
curious loneliness, a loneliness that brought with it a 
pain, seemed suddenly to make the hours drag and his 
pleasures flavorless. For two days he was puzzled. Then 
his habit of taking long walks helped him toward a solu- 
tion. In a small outlying music-hall in the east-end of 
London, he saw the same announcement that he had 
noticed in the Norfolk newspaper, — “Professor Frank- 
lin” in large type, and “Miss Beatrice Franklin” in small. 

That night he attended the music-hall. The scene 
was practically a repetition of the one in Norwich, only 
with additions. The professor’s bombastic performance 
met with scarcely any applause. Its termination was, 
indeed, interrupted by catcalls and whistles from the 
gallery. Beatrice’s songs, on the other hand, were ap- 
plauded more vociferously than ever. She had hard 
work to avoid a third encore. 

At the end of the performance, Tavernake made his 
way to the stage-door and waited. The neighborhood 
was an unsavory one, and the building itself seemed 
crowded in among a row of shops of the worst order, 
fish stalls, and a glaring gin palace. Long before Beatrice 


BEATRICE REFUSES 


315 


came out, Tavernake could hear the professor’s voice 
down the covered passage, the professor’s voice apparently- 
raised in anger. 

“Undutiful behavior, that’s what I call it — undutiful!” 

They emerged into the street, the professor very much 
the same as usual; Beatrice paler, with a pathetic droop 
about her mouth. Tavernake came eagerly forward. 

“Beatrice!” he cried, holding out his hand. 

The professor drew back. Beatrice stood still, — for 
a moment it seemed as though she were about to faint. 
Tavernake grasped her hands. 

“I am so sorry!” he exclaimed, clumsily. “I ought 
not to have come up like that.” 

She smiled a little wan smile. 

“I am quite all right,” she replied, “only the heat 
inside was rather trying, and even out here the atmosphere 
is n’t too good, is it? How did you find us out?” 

“By chance again,” Tavernake answered. “I have 
news. May I walk with you a few steps?” 

She glanced timidly toward her father. The professor 
was holding aloof in dignified silence. 

“Perhaps,” Tavernake said quickly, “you would take 
supper with me? I am going abroad, and I should like 
to say good-bye properly. A bottle of champagne and 
some supper. What do you say. Professor?” 

The professor suffered his features to relax. 

“A very admirable idea,” he declared. “Wdiere shall 
we go?” 

“Is it too late to get to Imano’s?” Tavernake suggested. 

The professor hesitated. 

“A taxicab,” he remarked, “would do it, if — ” 

He paused, and Tavernake smiled. 

“A taxicab it shall be,” he decided. “I am in funds 


3i6 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

just for the moment. Come along, both of you, and I’ll 
tell you all about it.” 

He made her take his arm, although her fingers did 
no more than touch his coat sleeve. 

“Pritchard came and dug me out,” he continued. “I 
am going abroad with him. It’s sort of prospecting in 
some new country at the back of British Columbia. We 
see what we can find and then go to a financier’s and 
start companies, mining companies and oil fields — any- 
thing. I am off in a w^eek.” 

Beatrice half closed her eyes. They had hailed a pass- 
ing cab and she sank back among the cushions with a 
sigh of relief. 

“Dear Leonard,” she murmured, “I am so glad, so 
very happy for your sake. This is the sort of thing which 
I hoped would happen.” 

“And now tell me about yourselves,” he went on. 

There was a sudden silence. Tavernake was conscious 
that Beatrice’s clothes were distinctly shabbier, that the 
professor’s hat was shiny. The professor cleared his throat. 

“I do not wish,” he said, “to intrude our private 
matters upon one who, although I will not call him a 
stranger, is assuredly not one of our old friends. At the 
same time, I admit that a little trouble has arisen be- 
tween Beatrice and myself, and we were discussing it at 
the moment you arrived. I shall appeal to you now. As 
an unprejudiced member of the audience to-night, Mr. 
Tavernake, you will give me yOur honest opinion?” 

“Certainly,” Tavernake promised, with a sinking 
premonition of what was to come. 

“What I complain of,” the professor began, speaking 
with elaborate and impressive slowness, “is that my 
performance is hurried over and that too long a time is 


BEATRICE REFUSES 


317 

taken up by Beatrice’s songs. The management remark 
upon the applause which her efforts occasionally ensure, 
6ut, as I would point out to you, sir,” he continued, “a 
performance such as mine makes too deep an impression 
for the audience to show their appreciation of it by such 
vulgar methods as hand-clapping and whistling. You 
follow me, I trust, Mr. Tavernake?” 

“Why, yes, of course,” Tavernake admitted. 

“I take a sincere and earnest interest in my work,” the 
professor declared, “and I feel that when it has to be 
scamped that my daughter may sing a music-hall ditty, 
the result is, to say the least of it, undignified. For some 
reason or other, I have been unable to induce the manage- 
ment to see entirely with me, but my point is that Beatrice 
should sing one song only, and that the additional ten 
minutes should be occupied by me in either a further 
exposition of my extraordinary powers as a hypnotist, 
or in a little address to the audience upon the hidden 
sciences. Now I appeal to you, Mr. Tavernake, as a 
young man of common sense. What is your opinion?” 

Tavernake, much too honest to be capable in a general 
way of duplicity, was on the point of giving it, but he 
caught Beatrice’s imploring gaze. Her lips were moving. 
He hesitated. 

“Of course,” he began, slowly, “you have to try and 
put yourself into the position of the major part of the 
audience, who are exceedingly uneducated people. It is 
very hard to give an opinion, Professor. I must say that 
your entertainment this evening was listened to with 
rapt interest.” 

The professor turned solemnly towards his daughter. 

“You hear that, Beatrice?” he said severely. “You 
hear what Mr. Tavernake says? ‘With rapt interest!’ ” 


3i8 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“At the same time,” Tavernake went on, “without a 
doubt Miss Beatrice’s songs were also extremely popular. 
It is rather a pity that the management could not give 
you a little more time.” 

“Failing that, sir,” the professor declared, “my point 
is, as I explained before, that Beatrice should give up 
one of her songs. What you have said this evening more 
than ever confirms me in my view.” 

Beatrice smiled thankfully at Tavernake. 

“Well,” she suggested, “at any rate we will leave it 
for the present. Sometimes I think, though, father, that 
you frighten them with some of your work, and you must 
remember that they come to be amused.” 

“That,” the professor admitted, “is the most sensible 
remark you have made, Beatrice. There is indeed some- 
thing terrifying in some of my manifestations, terrifying 
even to myself, who understand so thoroughly my subject. 
However, as you say, we will dismiss the matter for the 
present. The thought of this supper party is a pleasant 
one. Do you remember, Mr. Tavernake, the night when 
you and I met in the balcony at Imano’s?” 

“Perfectly well,” Tavernake answered. 

“Now I shall test your memory,” the professor con- 
tinued, with a knowing smile. “Can you remember, sir, 
the brand of champagne which I was then drinking, and 
which I declared, if you recollect, was the one which 
best agreed with me, the one brand worth drinking?” 

“I am afraid I don’t remember that,” Tavernake 
confessed. “Restaurant life is a thing I know so little of, 
and I have only drunk champagne once or twice in my 
life.” 

“Dear, dear me!” the professor exclaimed. “You 
do astonish me, sir. Well, that brand was Veuve Clicquot, 


BEATRICE REFUSES 319 

and you may take my word for it, Mr. Tavernake, and 
you may find this knowledge useful to you when you have 
made a fortune in America and have become a man of 
pleasure; there is no wine equal to it. Veuve Clicquot, sir, 
if possible of the year 1899, though the year 1900 is quite 
drinkable.” 

“Veuve Clicquot,” Tavernake repeated. “ I ’ll remember 
it for this evening.” 

The professor beamed. 

“My dear,” he said to Beatrice, “Mr. Tavernake will 
think that I had a purpose in testing his memory.” 

Beatrice smiled. 

“And hadn’t you, father?” she asked. 

They all laughed together. 

“Well, it is pleasant,” the professor admitted, “to have 
one’s weaknesses ministered to, especially when one is 
getting on in life,” he added, with a ponderous sigh. 
“Never mind, we will think only of pleasant subjects this 
evening. It will be quite interesting, Mr. Tavernake, to 
hear you order the supper.” 

“I sha’n’t attempt it,” Tavernake answered. “I shall 
pass it on to you.” 

“This reminds me,” the professor declared, “of the old 
days. I feel sure that this is going to be a thoroughly 
enjoyable evening. We shall think of it often, Mr. Taver- 
nake, when you lie sleeping under the stars. Why, what 
a wonderful thing these taxicabs are! You see, we have 
arrived.” 

They secured a small table in a corner at Imano’s, and 
Tavernake found himself curiously moved as he watched 
Beatrice take off her worn and much mended gloves and 
look around uneasily at the other guests. Her clothes were 
indeed shabby, and there were hollows now in her cheeks. 


320 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Again he felt that pain, a pain for which he could not 
account. Suddenly America seemed so far away, the 
loneliness of the great continent became an actual and 
appreciable thing. The professor was very much occupied 
ordering the supper. Tavernake leaned across the table. 

“Do you remember our first supper here, Beatrice.^” 
he asked. 

She nodded, with an attempt at brightness which was 
a little pitiful. 

“Yes,” she replied, “I remember it quite well. And 
now, please, Leonard, don’t talk to me again until I have 
had a glass of wine. I am tired and worn out, that is all.” 

Even Tavernake knew that she was struggling against 
the tears which already dimmed her eyes. He filled her 
glass himself. The professor set his own down empty 
with the satisfied smile of a connoisseur. 

“I think,” he said, “that you will agree with me about 
this vintage. Beatrice, this is what will bring color into 
your cheeks. My little girl,” he continued, turning to 
Tavernake, “will soon need a holiday. I am hoping 
presently to be able to arrange a short tour by myself, 
and if so, I shall send her to the seaside. Now I want 
you particularly to try the fish salad — the second dish 
there. Beatrice, let me help you.” 

Presently the orchestra began to play. The warmth 
of the room, the wine and the food — Tavernake had a 
horrible idea once that she had eaten nothing that day — 
brought back some of the color to Beatrice’s cheeks and 
a little of the light to her eyes. She began to talk some- 
thing in the old fashion. She avoided, however, any 
mention of that other supper they had had together. As 
time went on, the professor, who had drunk the best part 
of two bottles of wine and was talking now to a friend, 


BEATRICE REFUSES 321 

became almost negligible. Tavernake leaned across the 
table. 

“Beatrice,” he whispered, “you are not looking well. 
I am afraid that life is getting harder with you.” 

She shook her head. 

“I am doing what I must,” she answered. “Please 
don’t sympathize with me. I am hysterical, I think, to- 
night. It will pass off.” 

“But, Beatrice,” he ventured, timidly, “could one do 
nothing for you? I don’t like these performances, and 
between you and me, we know they won’t stand your 
father’s show much longer. It will certainly come to an 
end soon. Why don’t you try and get back your place 
at the theatre? You could still earn enough to keep him.” 

“Already I have tried,” she replied, sorrowfully. “My 
place is filled up. You see,” she added, with a forced 
laugh, “I have lost some of my looks, Leonard. I am 
thinner, too. Of course, I shall be all right presently, 
but it’s rather against me at these west-end places.” 

Again he felt that pain at his heart. He was sure now 
that he was beginning to understand! 

“Beatrice,” he whispered, “give it up — marry me — 
I will take care of him.” 

The flush of color faded from her cheeks. She shivered 
a little and looked at him piteously. 

“Leonard,” she pleaded, “you mustn’t. I really am 
not very strong just now. We have finished with all that 
— it distresses me.” 

“But I mean it,” he begged. “Somehow, I have felt 
all sorts of things since we came in here. I think of that 
night, and I believe — I do believe that what came to 
me before was madness. It was not the same.” 

She was trembling now. 


322 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Leonard,” she implored, “if you care for me at all, 
be quiet. Father will turn round directly and I can’t 
bear it. I shall be your very faithful friend; I shall think 
of you through the long days before we meet again, but 
don’t — don’t spoil this last evening.” 

The professor turned round, his face mottled, his eyes 
moist, a great good-humor apparent in his tone. 

“Well, I must say,” he declared, “that this has been a 
most delightful evening. I feel immensely better, and 
you, too, I hope, Beatrice?” 

She nodded, smiling. 

“I trust that when Mr. Tavernake returns,” the pro- 
fessor continued, “he will give us the opportunity of 
entertaining him in much the same manner. It will give 
me very much pleasure, alsq Beatrice. And if, sir,” he 
proceeded, “during your stay in New York you will 
mention my name at the Goat’s Club, or the Mosquito 
Club, you will, I think, find yourself received with a 
hospitality which will surprise you.” 

Tavernake thanked him and paid the bill. They walked 
slowly down the room, and Tavernake was curiously 
reluctant to release the little hand which clasped his. 

“I have kept this to the last,” Beatrice said, in a low 
tone. “Elizabeth is in London.” 

He was curiously unmoved. 

“Yes?” he murmured. 

“ I should like you — I think it would be well for you 
to go and see her,” she went on. “You know, Leonard, 
you were such a strange person in those days. You may 
imagine things. You may not realize where you are. 
I think that you ought to go and see her now, now that 
you have lived through some suffering, now that you 
understand things better. Will you?” 


BEATRICE REFUSES 


323 


“Yes, I will go,” Tarvernake promised. 

Beatrice glanced round towards where her father was 
standing. 

“I don’t want him to know,” she whispered. “I don’t 
want either him or myself to be tempted to take any of 
her money. She is living at Claridge’s Hotel. Go there 
and see her before you leave for your new life.” 

He stood at the door and watched them go down the 
Strand, the professor, flamboyant, walking erect with 
flying coat-tails, and his big cigar held flrmly between 
his teeth; Beatrice, a wan figure in her black clothes, 
clinging to his arm. Tavernake watched them until they 
disappeared, conscious of a curious excitement, a strange 
pain, a sense of revelation. When at last they were out 
of sight and he turned back for his coat and hat, his feet 
were suddenly leaden. The band was playing the last 
selection — it was the air which Beatrice had sung only 
that night at the east-end music-hall. With a sudden 
overpowering impulse he turned and strode down the 
Strand in the direction where they had vanished. It was 
too late. There was no sign of them. 


CHAPTER VI 


UNDERSTANDING CX)MES TOO LATE 

Tavernake’s first impression of Elizabeth was that he 
had never, even in his wildest thoughts, done her justice. 
He had never imagined her so wonderfully, so alluringly 
beautiful. She had received him, after a very long delay, 
in her sitting-room at Claridge’s Hotel — a large apart- 
ment furnished more like a drawing-room. She was stand- 
ing, when he entered, almost in the center of the room, 
dressed in a long lace cloak and a hat with a drooping 
black feather. She looked at him, as the door opened, as 
though for a moment half puzzled. Then she laughed 
softly and held out her hands. 

“Why, of course I remember you!” she exclaimed. 
“And to think that when I had your card I could n’t 
imagine where I had heard the name before! You are 
my dear estate agent’s clerk, who would n’t take my 
money, and who was so wretchedly rude to me twelve 
months ago.” 

Tavernake was quite cool. He found himself wonder- 
ing whether this was a pose, or whether she had indeed 
forgotten. He decided that it was a pose. 

“I was also,” he reminded her, “one night in your 
rooms at the Milan Court when your husband — ” 

She stopped him with an imperative gesture. 

“Spare me, please,” she begged. “Those were such 


UNDERSTANDING 


325 

terrible days — so dull, too ! I remember that you were 
quite one of the brightest spots. You were absolutely 
different from every one I had ever met before, and you 
interested me immensely.” 

She looked at him and slowly shook her head. 

“You look very nice,” she said. “Your clothes fit you . 
and you are most becomingly tanned, but you don’t look 
half so awkward and so adorable.” 

“I am sorry,” he replied, shortly. 

“And you came to see me!” she went on. “That was 
really nice of you. You were quite fond of me, once, you 
know. Tell me, has it lasted?” 

“That is exactly what I came to find out,” he answered 
deliberately. “So far, I am inclined to think that it 
has not lasted.” 

She made a little wry face and drew his arm through 
hers. 

“Come and sit down and tell me why,” she insisted. 
“Be honest, now. Is it because you think I am looking 
older?” 

“I have thought of you for many hours a day for 
months,” Tavernake said, slowly, “and I never imagined 
you so beautiful as you seem now.” 

She clapped her hands. 

“And you mean it, too!” she exclaimed. “There is 
just the same delightfully convincing note in your tone. 

I am sure that you mean it. Please go on adoring me, 
Mr. Tavernake. I have no one who interests me at all 
just now. There is an Italian Count who wants to marry 
me, but he is terribly poor; and a young Australian, who 
follows me everywhere, but I am not sure about him. 
There is an English boy, too, who is going to commit 
suicide if I don’t say "yes' to him this week. On the 


326 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

whole, I think I am rather sorry that people know I am a 
widow. Tell me, Mr. Tavernake, are you going to adore 
me, too.^^” 

‘‘I don’t think so,” Tavernake answered. “I rather 
believe that I am cured.” 

She shrugged her shoulders and laughed musically. 

“But you say that you still think I am beautiful,” she 
went on, “and I am sure my clothes are perfect — they 
came straight from Paris. I hope you appreciate this 
lace,” she added, drawing it through her fingers. “My 
figure is just as good, too, isn’t it?” 

She stood up and turned slowly round. Then she sat 
down suddenly, taking his hand in hers. 

“Please don’t say that you think I have grown less 
attractive,” she begged. 

“As regards your personal attractions,” Tavernake 
replied, “I imagine that they are at least as great as ever. 
If you want the truth, I think that the reason I do not 
adore you any longer is because I saw your sister last 
night.” 

“Saw Beatrice!” she exclaimed. “Where?” 

“She was singing at a miserable east-end music-hall 
so that her father might find some sort of employment,” 
Tavernake said. “The people only forbore to hiss her 
father’s turn for her sake. She goes about the country 
with him. Heaven knows what they earn, but it must 
be little enough! Beatrice is shabby and thin and pale. 
She is devoting the best years of her life to what she 
imagines to be her duty.” 

“And how does this affect me?” Elizabeth asked, 
coldly. 

“Only in this way,” Tavernake answered. “You asked 
me how it was that I could find you as beautiful as ever 


UNDERSTANDING 


327 

and adore you no longer. The reason is because I know 
you to be wretchedly selfish. I believed in you before. 
Everything that you did seemed right. That was because 
I was a fool, because you had filled my brain with im- 
possible fancies, because I saw you and everything that 
you did through a distorted mirror.” 

“Have you come here to be rude?” she asked him. 

“Not in the least,” he replied. “I came here to see 
whether I was cured.” 

She began to laugh, very softly at first, but soon she 
threw herself back among the cushions and laid her hand 
caressingly upon his shoulder. 

“Oh, you are just the same!” she cried. “Just the 
same dear, truthful bundle of honesty and awkwardness 
and ignorance. So you are going to be victim of Beatrice’s 
bow and spear, after all.” 

“I have asked your sister to marry me,” Tavernake 
admitted. “She will not.” 

“She was very wise,” Elizabeth declared, wiping the 
tears from her eyes. “As an experience you are delightful. 
As a husband you would be terribly impossible. Are you 
going to stay and take me out to dinner this evening? 
I ’m sure you have a dress suit now.” 

Tavernake shook his head. 

“ I am sorry,” he said. “ I have already an engagement.” 

She looked at him curiously. Was it really true that 
he had become indifferent? She was not used to men 
who escaped. 

“Tell me,” she asked, abruptly, “why did you come? 
I don’t understand. You are here, and you pass your 
time being rude to me. I ask you to take me to dinner 
and you refuse. Do you know that scarcely a man in 
London would not have jumped at such a chance?” 


328 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Very likely,” Tavernake answered. “I have no 
experience in such matters. I only know that I am going 
to do something else.” 

“Something you want to do very much? ” she whispered. 

“I am going down to a little music-hall in Whitechapel,” 
Tavernake said, “and I am going to meet your sister and 
I am going to put her in a cab and take her to have some 
supper, and I am going to worry her until she promises 
to be my wife.” 

“You are certainly a devoted admirer of the family,” 
she laughed. “Perhaps you were in love with her all the 
time.” 

“Perhaps I was,” he admitted. 

She shook her head. 

“I don’t believe it,” she said. “I think you were quite 
fond of me once. You have such absurdly old-fashioned 
ideas or I think that you would be fond of me now.” 

Tavernake rose to his feet. 

“I am going,” he declared. “This will be good-bye. 
To-morrow I am going to British Columbia.” 

The laughter faded for a moment from her face. She 
was suddenly serious. 

“Don’t go,” she begged. “Listen. I know I am not 
good like Beatrice, but I do like you — I always did. I 
suppose it is that wonderful truthfulness of yours. You 
are a different type from the men one meets. I am rather 
a reckless person. It is such a comfort sometimes to meet 
any one like you. You seem such an anchorage. Stay 
and talk to me for a little time. Take me out to-night. 
You asked me to go with you once, you know, and I would 
not. To-night it is I who ask you.” 

He shook his head slowly. 

“This is good-bye!” he said, firmly. “I suppose, after 


UNDERSTANDING 


329 

all, you were not unkind to me in those days, but you 
taught me a very bitter lesson. I came to you to-day in 
fear and trembling. I was afraid, perhaps, that the worst 
was not over, that there was more yet to come. Now I 
know that I am free.” 

She stamped her foot. 

“You shall not go away like that,” she declared. 

He smiled. 

“Do you think I do not understand?” he continued. 
“It is only because I am able to go, because the touch of 
your fingers, that look in your eyes, do not drive me 
half mad now, that you want me to stay. You would 
like to try your powers once more. I think not. I am 
satisfied that I am cured indeed, but perhaps it is safer 
to risk nothing.” 

She pointed to the door. 

“Very well, then,” she ordered, “you can go.” 

He bowed, and already his fingers were on the handle. 
Suddenly she called to him. 

“Leonard! Leonard!” 

He turned round. She was coming towards him with 
her arms outstretched, her eyes were full of tears, there 
were sobs in her voice. 

“I am so lonely,” she begged. “I have thought of you 
so much. Don’t go away unkindly. Stay with me for 
this evening, at any rate. You can see Beatrice at any 
time. It is I who need you most now.” 

He looked around at the splendid apartment; he looked 
at the woman whose fingers, glittering with jewels, rested 
upon his shoulders. Then he thought of Beatrice in her 
shabby black gown and wan little face, and very gently 
he removed her hands. 

“No,” he said, “I do not think that you need me any 


330 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

more than I need you. This is a caprice of yours. You 
know it and I know it. Is it worth while to play with 
one another?’' 

Her hands fell to her sides. She turned half away but 
she said nothing. Tavernake, with a sudden impulse 
which had in it nothing of passion — very little, indeed, 
of affection — lifted her fingers to his lips and passed 
out of the room. He descended the stairs, filled with a 
wonderful sense of elation, a buoyancy of spirit which 
he could not understand. As he walked blithely to his 
hotel, however, he began to realize how much he had 
dreaded this interview. He was a free man, after all. 
The spell was broken. He could think of her now as she 
deserved to be thought of, as a consummate woman of 
the world, selfish, heartless, conscienceless. He was well 
out of her toils. It was nothing to him if even he had 
known that at that moment she was lying upon the sofa 
to which she had staggered as he left the room, weeping 
bitterly. 

For over an hour Tavernake endured the smells and 
the bad atmosphere of that miserable little music-hall, 
watching eagerly each time the numbers were changed. 
Then at last, towards the end of the program, the 
manager appeared in front. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I regret very 
much to inform you that owing to the indisposition of 
the young lady. Miss Beatrice Franklin and her father 
are unable to appear to-night. I have pleasure in an- 
nouncing an extra turn, namely the Sisters De Vere in 
their wonderful burlesque act.” 

There was a murmur of disapprobation mingled with 
some cheering. Tavernake left his place and walked 


UNDERSTANDING 


331 

around to the back of the hall. Presently the manager 
came out to him. 

“I am sorry to trouble you, sir,” Tavernake said,“but 
I heard your announcement just now from the front. 
Can you give me the address of Professor Franklin? I 
am a friend, and I should like to go and see them.” 

The manager pointed to the stage-doorkeeper. 

“This man will give it you,” he announced, shortly. 
“It’s quite close. I shall look in myself after the show 
to know how the young lady is.” 

Tavernake procured the address and set out in the 
taxicab which he had kept waiting. The driver listened 
to the direction doubtfully. 

“It’s a poor sort of neighborhood, sir,” he remarked. 

“We’ve got to go there,” Tavernake told him. 

They reached it in a few minutes, a miserable street 
indeed. Tavernake knocked at the door of the house to 
which he was directed, with sinking heart. A man, collar- 
less and half dressed, in carpet slippers, opened the door 
after a few moments’ waiting. 

“Well, what" is it?” he asked, gruffly. 

“Is Professor Franklin here?” Tavernake inquired. 

The man seemed as though he were about to slam the 
door, but thought better of it. 

“If you’re a friend of the professor’s, as he calls him- 
self,” he said, “and you’ve any money to shell out, why, 
you ’re welcome, but if you ’re only asking out of curiosity, 
let me tell you that he used to lodge here but he’s gone, 
and if I’d had my way he’d have gone a week ago, him 
and his daughter, too.” 

“I don’t understand,” Tavernake protested. “I 
thought the young lady was ill.” 

J‘She may be ill or she may not,” the man replied. 


332 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

sulkily. “All I know is that they couldn’t pay their 
rent, could n’t pay their food bill, could n’t pay for the 
drinks the old man was always sending out for. So to- 
night I spoke up and they’ve gone.” 

“At least you know where to!” Tavernake exclaimed. 

“ I ain’t no sort of an idea,” the man declared. “ Take 
my word for it straight, guvnor, I know no more about 
where they went to than the man in the moon, except 
that I’m well shut of them, and there’s a matter of eigh- 
teen and sixpence, if you care to pay it.” 

“I’ll give you a sovereign,” Tavernake promised, “if 
you will tell me where they are now.” 

“What’s the good of making silly conditions like that!” 
the man grumbled. “If I knew where they were, I’d 
earn the quid soon enough, but I don’t, and that’s the 
long and the short of it! And if you ain’t going to pay 
the eighteen and six, well, I ’ve answered all the questions 
I feel inclined to.” 

“ I ’ll make it two pounds,” Tavernake promised. “ I ’m 
going to sail for America to-morrow morning early, and 
I must see them first.” 

The man leaned forward. 

“Look here,” he said, “if I knew where they was, a 
quid would be quite good enough for me, but I don’t, and 
that’s straight. If you want to look for them, I should 
try one of the doss houses. As likely there as anywhere.” 

He slammed the door and Tavernake turned away. A 
sudden despair had seized him. He looked up and down the 
street, he looked away beyond and thought of the miles and 
miles of streets, the myriads of chimneys, the huge branches 
of the great city stretching far and wide. At eight o’clock 
the next morning, he must leave for Southampton. Was 
it too late, after all, that he had discovered the truth? 


CHAPTER VII 


IN A VIRGIN COUNTRY 

One night Tavernake began to laugh. He had grown a 
long brown beard and the hair was over his ears. He was 
wearing a gray flannel shirt, a handkerchief tied around 
his neck, and a pair of worn riding breeches held up by 
a belt. He had kicked his boots off at the end of a long 
day, and was lying in the moonlight before a Are of pine 
logs, whose smoke went straight to the star-hung sky. 
No word had been spoken for the last hour. Tavernake’s 
fit of mirth came with as little apparent reason as the 
puffs of wind which every now and then stole down from 
the mountain side and made faint music in the virgin 
forests. 

Pritchard turned over on his side and looked at him. 
Cigars had for many weeks been an unknown thing, 
and he was smoking a corn-cob pipe full of coarse 
tobacco. 

“Stumbled across a joke anywhere?” he asked. 

“I’m afraid no one but myself would see the humor 
of it,” Tavernake answered. “I was thinking of those 
days in London; I was thinking of Beatrice’s horror when 
she discovered that I was wearing ready-made clothes, 
and the amazement of Elizabeth when she found that I 
hadn’t a dress suit. It’s odd how cramped life gets 
back there.” 


334 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

Pritchard nodded, pressing the tobacco down into the 
bowl of his pipe with his forefinger. 

“You’re right, Tavernake,” he agreed. “One loses 
one’s sense of proportion. Men in the cities are all alike. 
They go about in disguise.” 

“I should like,” Tavernake said, inconsequently, “to 
have Mr. Dowling out here.” 

“Amusing fellow?” Pritchard inquired. 

Tavernake shook his head, smiling. 

“Not in the least,” he answered, “only he was a very 
small man. Out here it is difficult to keep small. Don’t 
you feel it, Pritchard? These mountains make our hills 
at home seem like dust-heaps. The skies seem loftier. 
Look down into that valley. It’s gigantic, immense.” 

Pritchard yawned. 

“There’s a little place in the Bowery,” he began, — 

“Oh, I don’t want to know any more about New York,” 
Tavernake interrupted. “Lean back and close your eyes, 
smell the cinnamon trees, listen to that night bird calling 
every now and then across the ravine. There ’s blackness, 
if you like; there’s depth. It’s like a cloak of velvet to 
look into. But you can’t see the bottom — no, not in 
the daytime. Listen!” 

Pritchard sat up. For a few moments neither spoke. 
A dozen yards or so off, a scattered group — the rest of 
the party — were playing cards around a fire. The green 
wood crackled, an occasional murmur of voices, a laugh 
or an exclamation, came to their ears, but for the rest, 
an immense, a wonderful silence, a silence which seemed 
to spread far away over that weird, half-invisible world! 
Tavernake listened reverently. 

“Isn’t it marvelous!” he exclaimed. “We haven’t 
seen a human being except our own party, for three days. 


IN A VIRGIN COUNTRY 


335 

There probably is n’t one within hearing of us now. 
Very likely no living person has ever set foot in this 
precise spot.” 

“Oh, it’s big,” Pritchard admitted, “it’s big and it’s 
restful, but it is n’t satisfying. It does for you for a time 
because you started life wrong and you needed a reaction. 
But for me — ah, well!” he added, “I hear the call right 
across these thousands of miles of forests and valley and 
swamp. I hear the electric cars and the clash of the 
overhead railway, I see the flaring lights of Broadway 
and I hear the babel of tongues. I am going back to it, 
Tavernake. There’s plenty to go on with. We’ve done 
more than carry out our program.” 

“Back to New York!” Tavernake muttered, disconso- 
lately. 

“So you’re not ready yet?” Pritchard demanded. 

“Heavens, no!” Tavernake answered. “Who would 
be? What is there in New York to make up for this?” 

Pritchard was silent for a moment. 

“Well,” he said, “one of us must be getting back near 
civilization. The syndicate will be expecting to hear 
from us. Besides, we’ve reports enough already. It’s 
time something was decided about that oil country. 
We’ve done some grand work there, Tavernake.” 

Tavernake nodded. He was lying on his side and his 
eyes were fixed wistfully southward, over the glimmering 
moonlit valley, over the great wilderness of virgin pine 
woods which hung from the mountains on the other side, 
away through the cleft in the hills to the plains beyond, 
chaotic, a world unseen. 

“If you like to go on for a bit,” Pritchard suggested, 
slowly, “there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take 
McCleod and Richardson with you, and Pete and half 


336 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

the horses, and strike for the tin country on the other 
side of the Yolite Hills. So long as we are here, it’s quite 
worth it, if you can stick it out.” 

Tavernake drew a long breath. 

“I’d like to go,” he admitted, simply. know Mc- 
Cleod is keen about prospecting further south. You see, 
most of our finds so far have been among the oil fields.” 

“Settled,” Pritchard declared. “To-morrow, then, we 
part. I’m for the valley, and I reckon I’ll strike the 
railway to Chicago in a week. Gee whiz! New York will 
seem good!” 

“You think that the syndicate will be satisfied with 
what we have done so far?” Tavernake asked. 

His companion smiled. 

“If they aren’t, they’ll be fools. I reckon there’s 
enough oil fields here for seven companies. There’ll be 
a bit for us, too, Tavernake, I guess. Don’t you want to 
come back to New York and spend it?” 

Tavernake laughed once more, but this time his laugh 
was not wholly natural. 

“Spend it!” he repeated. “What is there to spend it 
on? Uncomfortable clothes, false plays, drinks that are 
bad for you, food that’s half poisoned, atmosphere that 
stifles. My God, Pritchard, is there anything in the 
world like this! Stretch out your arms, man. Lie on 
your back, look up at the stars, let that wind blow over 
your face. Listen.” 

They listened, and again they heard nothing, yet again 
there seemed to be that peculiar quality about the silence 
which spoke of the vastness of space. 

Pritchard rose to his feet. 

“New York and the fleshpots for me,” he declared. 
“Keep in touch, and good luck old man!” . . 


IN A VIRGIN COUNTRY 


337 

Next day at dawn they parted, and Tavernake, with 
his three companions, set his face towards an almost 
undiscovered tract of land. Their progress was slow, 
for they were all the time in a country rich with possi- 
bilities. For weeks they climbed, climbed till they reached 
the snows and the wind stung their faces and they shivered 
in their rugs at night. They came to a land of sparser 
vegetation, of fewer and wilder animals, where they heard 
the baying of wolves at night, and saw the eyes of strange 
animals glisten through the thicket as the flames of their 
evening fire shot up toward the sky. Then the long descent 
began, the long descent to the great plain. Now their 
faces were bronzed with a sun ever hotter, ever more 
powerful. No longer the snow flakes beat their cheeks. 
They came slowly down into a land which seemed to 
Tavernake like the biblical land of Canaan. Three times 
in ten days they had to halt and make a camp, while 
Tavernake prepared a geographical survey of likely- 
looking land. 

McCleod came up to Tavernake one day with a dull- 
looking lump in his hand, glistening in places. 

“Copper,” he announced, shortly. “It’s what I’ve 
been looking for all the time. No end to it. There’s 
something bigger than oil here.” 

They spent a month in the locality, and every day 
McCleod became more enthusiastic. After that it was 
hard work to keep him from heading [homeward at 
once. 

“I tell you, sir,” he explained to Tavernake, “there’s 
millions there, millions between those four stakes of 
yours. What’s the good of more prospecting? There’s 
enough there in a square acre to pay the expenses of our 
expedition a thousand times over. Let’s get back and 


338 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

make reports. We can strike the railway in ten days 
from here — perhaps sooner.” 

“You go,” Tavernake said. “Leave me Pete and two 
of the horses.” 

The man stared at him in surprise. 

“What’s the good of going on alone?” he asked. 
“You’re not a mining expert or an oil man. You can’t 
go prospecting by yourself.” 

“I can’t help it,” Tavernake answered. “It’s some- 
thing in my blood, I suppose. I am going on. Think! 
You’ll strike that railway and in a month you will be 
back in New York. Don’t you imagine, when you’re 
there, when you hear the clatter and turmoil of it, when 
you see the pale crowds chivvying one another about to 
pick the dollars from each other’s pockets, — don’t you 
believe you’ll long for these solitudes, the big empty 
places, great possibilities, the silence? Think of it, man. 
What is there beyond those mountains, I wonder?” 

McCleod sighed. 

“You’re right,” he said. “One may never get so far 
out again. Our fortunes will keep, I suppose, and anyhow 
we ought to strike a telegraph station in about a fortnight. 
We’ll go right ahead, then.” 

In ten days they dropped ten thousand feet. They 
came to a land where their throats were always dry, 
where the trees and shrubs seemed like property affairs 
from a theatre, where they plunged their heads into every 
pool that came to wash their noses and mouths from the 
red dust that seemed to choke them up. They found 
tin and oil and more copper. Then, by slow stages, they 
passed on to a land of great grassy plains, of blue grass, 
miles and miles of it, and suddenly one day they came 
to the telegraph posts, rough pine trees unstripped of 


IN A VIRGIN COUNTRY 339 

their bark, with a few sagging wires. Tavernake looked 
at them as Robinson Crusoe might have looked at Man 
Friday’s footsteps. It was the first sign of human life 
which they had seen for months. 

“It’s a real world we are in, after all!” he sighed. 
“Somehow or other, I thought — I thought we’d escaped.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


BACK TO CIVILIZATION 

Pritchard, trim and neat, a New Yorker from the care- 
ful arrangement of his tie to the tips of his patent boots, 
gazed with something like amazement at the man whom 
he had come to meet at the Grand Central Station. Taver- 
nake looked, indeed, like some splendid bushman whose 
life has been spent in the kingdom of the winds and the 
sun and the rain. He was inches broader round the 
chest, and carried himself with a new freedom. His face 
was bronzed right down to the neck. His beard was 
full-grown, his clothes travel-stained and worn. He 
seemed like a breath of real life in the great New York 
depot, surrounded by streams of black-coated, pale- 
cheeked men. 

Pritchard laughed softly as he passed his arm through 
his friend’s. 

“Come, my Briton,” he said, “my primitive man, I 
have rooms for you in a hotel close here. A bath and a 
mint julep, then I’ll take you to a tailor’s. What about 
the big country? It’s better than your salt marshes, eh? 
Better than your little fishing village? Better than 
building boats?” 

“You know it,” Tavernake answered. “I feel as though 
I’d been drawing in life for month after month. Have I 
got to wear boots like yours — patent?” 


341 


BACK TO CIVILIZATION 

“Got to be done,” Pritchard declared. 

“And the hat — oh, my Heavens!” Tavernake groaned. 
“I’ll never become civilized again.” 

“We’ll see,” Pritchard laughed. “Say, Tavernake, it 
was a great trip of ours. Everything ’s turning out mar- 
velously. The oil and the copper are big, man — big, I 
tell you. I reckon your five thousand dollars will be well 
on the way to half a million. I’m pretty near there 
myself.” 

It was not until later on, when he was alone, that Taver- 
nake realized with how little interest he listened to his 
companion’s talk of their success. It was so short a time 
ago since the building up of a fortune had been the one 
aim upon which every nerve of his body was centered. 
Curiously enough, now he seemed to take it as a matter 
of course. 

“On second thoughts. I’ll send a tailor round to the 
hotel,” Pritchard declared. “I’ve rooms myself next 
yours. We can go out and buy boots and the other 
things afterwards.” 

By nightfall, Tavernake’s wardrobe was complete. 
Even Pritchard regarded him with a certain surprise. 
He ^seemed, somehow, to have gained a new dignity. 

“Say, but you look great!” he exclaimed. “They 
won’t believe it at the meeting to-morrow that you are 
the man who crossed the Yolite Mountains and swam the 
Peraneek River. That’s a wonderful country you were 
in, Tavernake, after you left the tracks.” 

They were in Broadway, with the roar of the city in 
their ears, and Tavernake, lifting his face starwards, 
suddenly seemed to feel the silence once more, the perfume 
of the pine woods, the scent of nature herself, freed 
through all these generations of any presence of man. 


342 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“I’ll never keep away from it,” he said, softly. “I’ll 
have to go back.” 

Pritchard smiled. 

“When your report ’s in shape and the dollars are being 
scooped in, they’ll send you back fast enough — that is, 
if you still want to go,” he remarked. “I tell you, Leon- 
ard Tavernake, our city men here are out for the dollars. 
Over on your side, a man makes a million or so and he’s 
had enough. One fortune here only seems to whet the 
appetite of a New Yorker. By the way,” he added, after 
a moment’s hesitation, “does it interest you to know 
that an old friend of yours is in New York?” 

Tavernake’s head went round swiftly. 

“Who is it?” he asked. 

“Mrs. Wenham Gardner.” 

Tavernake set his teeth. 

“No,” he said, slowly, “I don’t know that that interests 
me.” 

“Glad of it,” Pritchard went on. “I can tell you I 
don’t think things have been going extra well with the 
lady. She ’s spent most of what she got from the Gardner 
family, and she does n’t seem to have had the best of 
luck with it, either. I came across her by accident. She 
is staying at a flashy hotel, but it’s in the wrong quarter — 
second-rate — quite second-rate.” 

“I wonder whether we shall see anything of her,” 
Tavernake remarked. 

“Do you want to?” Pritchard asked. “She’ll probably 
be at Martin’s for lunch, at the Plaza for tea, and Rector’s 
for supper. She’s not exactly the lady to remain hidden, 
you know.” 

“We’ll avoid those places, then, if you are taking me 
around,” Tavernake said. 


BACK TO CIVILIZATION 


343 


“You’re cured, are you?”^ Pritchard inquired. 

“Yes, I am cured,” Tavernake answered, “cured of 
that and a great many other things, thanks to you. You 
found me the right tonic.” 

“Tonic,” Pritchard repeated, meditatively. “That 
reminds me. This way for the best cocktail in New 
York.” . . . 

The night was not to pass, however, without its own 
especial thrill for Tavernake. The two men dined to- 
gether at Delmonico’s and went afterwards to a roof 
garden, a new form of entertainment for Tavernake, 
and one which interested him vastly. They secured one 
of the outside tables near the parapets, and below them 
New York stretched, a flaming phantasmagoria of lights 
and crude buildings, Down the broad avenues with their 
towering blocks, their street cars striking fire all the time 
like toys below, the people streamed like insects away to 
the Hudson, where the great ferry boats, ablaze with 
lights, went screaming across the dark waters. Tavernake 
leaned over and forgot. There was so much that was 
amazing in this marvelous city for a man who had only 
just begun to find himself. 

The orchestra, stationed within a few yards of him, 
commenced to play a popular waltz, and Pritchard to 
talk. Tavernake turned his fascinated eyes from the 
prospect below. 

“My young friend,” Pritchard said, “you are up 
against it to-night. Take a drink of your wine and then 
brace yourself.” 

Tavernake did as he was told. 

“What is this danger?” he asked. “What’s wrong, 
anyway?” 

Pritchard had no need to answer. As Tavernake set 


344 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

his glass down, his eyes fell upon the little party who had 
just taken the table almost next to theirs. There were 
Walter Crease, Major Post, two men whom he had never 
seen before in his life — heavy of cheek, both, dull-eyed, 
but dressed with a rigid observance of the fashion of the 
city, in short dinner coats and black ties. And between 
them was Elizabeth. Tavernake gripped the sides of his 
chair and looked. Yes, she had altered. Her eyebrows 
were a trifle made up, there was a tinge in her hair which 
he did not recognize, a touch of color in her cheeks which 
he doubted. Yet her figure and her wonderful presence 
remained, that art of wearing her clothes as no other 
woman could. She was easily the most noticeable-looking 
of her sex among all the people there. Tavernake heard 
the sound of her voice and once more the thrill came 
and passed. She was the same Elizabeth. Thank 
God, he thought, that he was not the same Tavernake! 

“Do you wish to go?*' Pritchard asked. 

Tavernake shook his head. 

“Not I!” he answered. “This place is far too fascinat- 
ing. Can’t we have some more wine.? This is my treat. 
And, Pritchard, why do you look at me like that? You 
are not supposing for a 'moment that I am capable of 
making an ass of myself again?” 

Pritchard smiled in a relieved fashion. 

“My young friend,” he said, “I have lived in the 
world so long and seen so many strange things, especially 
between men and women, that I am never surprised at 
anything. I thought you’d shed your follies as your 
grip upon life had tightened, but one is never sure.” 

Tavernake sighed. 

“Oh, I have shed the worst of my follies!” he answered. 
“I only wish — ” 


BACK TO CIVILIZATION 345 

He never finished his sentence. Elizabeth had suddenly 
seen him. For a moment she leaned forward as though 
to assure herself that she was not mistaken. Then she 
half sprang to her feet and sat down again. Her 
lips were parted — she was once more bewilderingly 
beautiful. 

“Mr. Tavernake,” she cried, “come and speak to me 
at once.” 

Tavernake rose without hesitation, and walked firmly 
across the few yards which separated them. She held 
out both her hands. 

“This is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You in New 
York! And I have wondered so often what became of 
you.” 

Tavernake smiled. 

“It is my first night here,” he said. “For two years I 
have been prospecting in the far west.” 

“Then I saw your name in the papers,” she declared. 
“It was for the Manhattan Syndicate, wasn’t it?** 

Tavernake nodded, and one of the men of the party 
leaned forward with interest. 

“You’re going to make millions and millions,” she 
assured him. “You always knew you would, didn’t 
you?” 

“I am afraid that I was almost too confident,” he 
answered. “But certainly we have been quite fortunate.” 

One of Elizabeth’s companions intervened — he was 
the one who had pricked up his ears at the mention of 
the Manhattan Syndicate. 

“Say, Elizabeth,” he remarked, “I’d like to meet 
your friend.” 

Elizabeth, with a frown, performed the introduction. 

“Mr. Anthony Cruxhall — Mr. Tavernake!” 


346 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

Mr. Cruxhall held out a fat white hand, on the little 
finger of which glittered a big diamond ring. 

“ Say, are you the Mr. Tavernake that was surveyor 
to the prospecting party sent out by the Manhattan 
Syndicate?” he inquired. 

“I was,” Tavernake admitted, briefly. “I still am, 
I hope.” 

“Then you’re just the man I was hoping to meet,” 
Mr. Cruxhall declared. “Won’t you sit down with us 
right here? I’d like to talk some about that trip. I’m 
interested in the Syndicate.” 

Tavernake shook his head. 

“I’ve had enough of work for a time,” he said. “Be- 
sides, I could n’t talk about it till after my report to the 
meeting to-morrow.” 

“Just a few words,” Mr. Cruxhall persisted. “We’ll 
have a bottle of champagne, eh?” 

“You will excuse me, I am sure,” Tavernake replied, 
“when I tell you that it would not be correct on my part 
to discuss my trip until after I have handed in my report 
to the company. I am very glad to have seen you again, 
Mrs. Gardner.” 

“But you are not going!” she exclaimed, in dismay. 

“I have left Mr. Pritchard alone,” Tavernake answered. 

Elizabeth smiled, and waved her hand to the solitary 
figure. 

“ Our friend Mr. Pritchard again,” she remarked. 
“Well, it is really a curious meeting, is n’t it? I wonder,” 
— she lifted her head to his and her eyes called him closer 
to hers — “have you forgotten everything?” 

He pointed over the roofs of the houses. His back was 
to the river and he pointed westward. 

“I have been in a country where one forgets,” he 


BACK TO CIVILIZATION 


347 

answered. “I think that I have thrown the knapsack 
of my follies away. I think that it is buried. There are 
some things which I do not forget, but they are scarcely 
to be spoken of.” 

“You are a strange young man,” she said. “Was I 
wrong, or were you not once in love with me?” 

“I was terribly in love with you,” Tavernake con- 
fessed. 

“Yet you tore up my cheque and flung yourself away 
when you found out that my standard of morals was not 
quite what you had expected,” she murmured. “Have n’t 
you got over that quixoticism a little, Leonard?” 

He drew a deep sigh. 

“I am thankful to say,” he declared, earnestly, “that 
I have not got over it, that, if anything, my prejudices 
are stronger than ever.” 

She sat for a moment quite still, and her face had become 
hard and expressionless. She was looking past him, past 
the line of lights, out into the blue darkness. 

“Somehow,” she said, softly, “I always prayed that 
you might remember. You were the one true thing I had 
ever met, you were in earnest. It is past, then?” 

“It is past,” Tavernake answered, bravely. 

The music of a Hungarian waltz came floating down 
to them. She half closed her eyes. Her head moved 
slowly with the melody. Tavernake looked away. 

“Will you come and see me just once?” she asked, 
suddenly. “ I am staying at the Delvedere, in Forty-Second 
Street.” 

“Thank you very much,” Tavernake replied. “I do 
not know how long I shall be in New York. If I am here 
for a few days, I shall take my chance at finding you at 
home.” 


348 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

He bowed, and returned to Pritchard, who welcomed 
him with a quiet smile. 

“You’re wise, Tavernake,” he said, softly. “I could 
hear no words, but I know that you have been wise. Be- 
tween you and me,” he added, in a lower tone, “she is 
going downhill. She is in with the wrong lot here. She 
can’t seem to keep away from them. They are on the 
very fringe of Bohemia, a great deal nearer the arm of the 
law than makes for respectable society. The man to whom 
I saw you introduced is a millionaire one day and a thief 
the next. They’re none of them any good. Did you 
notice, too, that she is wearing sham jewelry? That 
always looks bad.” 

“No, I didn’t notice,” Tavemake answered. 

He was silent for a moment. Then he leaned a little 
forward. 

“I wonder,” he asked, “do you know anything about 
her sister? ” 

Pritchard finished his wine and knocked the ash from 
his cigar. 

“Not much,” he replied. “I believe she had a very 
hard time. She took on the father, you know, the old 
professor, and did her best to keep him straight. He died 
about a year ago and Miss Beatrice tried to get back into 
the theatre, but she’d missed her chance. Theatrical 
business has been shocking in London. I heard she ’d 
come out here. Wherever she is, she keeps right away 
from that sort of set,” he wound up, moving his head 
towards Elizabeth’s friends. 

“I wonder if she is in New York,” Tavernake said, 
with a strange thrill at his heart. 

Pritchard made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the 
little group at the next table. Elizabeth was leaning 


BACK TO CIVILIZATION 


'349 

back in her chair. She seemed to have abandoned the 
conversation. Her eyes were always seeking Tavernake’s. 
Pritchard rose to his feet abruptly. 

“It’s time we were in bed,” he declared. “Remember 
the meeting to-morrow.” 

Tavemake rose to his feet. As they passed the next 
table, Elizabeth leaned over to him. Her eyes pleaded 
with his almost passionately. 

“Dear Leonard,” she whispered, “you must — you 
must come and see me. I shall stay in between four and 
six every evening this week. The Belvedere, remember.” 

“Thank you very much,” Tavernake answered. “I 
shall not forget.” 


CHAPTER IX 


FOR ALWAYS 

Once again it seemed to Beatrice that history was repeat- 
ing itself. The dingy, oblong dining-room, with its mos- 
quito netting, stained tablecloth, and hard cane chairs, 
expanded until she fancied herself in the drawing-room of 
Blenheim House. Between the landladies there was 
little enough to choose. Mrs. Raithby Lawrence, not- 
withstanding her caustic tongue and suspicious nature, 
had at least made some pretense at gentility. The woman 
who faced her now — hard-featirred, with narrow, sus- 
picious eyes and a mass of florid hair — was unmistakably 
and brutally vulgar. 

“What’s the good of your keeping on saying you hope 
to get an engagement next week?” she demanded, with 
a sneer. “Who’s likely to engage you? Why, you’ve 
lost your color and your looks and your weight since you 
came to stay here. They don’t want such as you in the 
chorus. And for the rest, you’re too high and mighty, 
that’s my opinion of you. Take what you can get, and 
how you can get it, and be thankful, — that’s my motto. 
Day after day you tramp about the streets with your head 
in the air, and won’t take this and won’t take that, and 
meanwhile my bill gets bigger and bigger. Now where 
have you been to this morning, I should like to know? ” 

Beatrice, who was faint and tired, shaking in every 
limb, tried to pass out of the room, but her questioner 
barred the way. 


FOR ALWAYS 


351 


“I have been up town,” she answered, nervously. 

“Hear of anything?” 

Beatrice shook her head. 

“Not yet. Please let me go upstairs and lie down. I 
am tired and I need to rest.” 

“And I need my money,” Mrs. Selina P. Watkins 
declared, without quitting her position, “and it’s no good 
your going up to your room because the door’s locked.” 

“What do you mean?” Beatrice faltered. 

“I mean that I’ve done with you,” the lodging-house 
keeper announced. “Your room’s locked up and the 
key’s in my pocket, and the sooner you get out of this, 
the better I shall be pleased.” 

“But my box — my clothes,” Beatrice cried. 

“I’ll keep ’em a week for you,” the woman answered, 
“Bring me the money by then and you shall have them. 
If I don’t hear anything of you, they’ll go to the auction 
mart.” 

Something of her old spirit fired the girl for a moment. 
She was angry, and she forgot that her knees were trem- 
bling with fatigue, that she was weak and aching with 
hunger. 

“How dare you talk like that!” she exclaimed. “You 
shall have your money shortly, but I must have my clothes. 
I cannot go anywhere without them.” 

The woman laughed harshly. 

“Look here, my young lady,” she said, “you’ll see your 
box again when I see the colof of your money, and not 
before. And now out you go, please, — out you go! If 
you ’re going to make any trouble, Solly will have to show 
you the way down the steps.” 

The woman had opened the door, and a colored servant, 
half dressed, with a broom in her hand, came slouching 


352 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

down the passage. Beatrice turned and fled out of the 
greasy, noisome (^atmosphere, down the wooden, uneven 
steps, out into the ugly street. She turned toward the 
nearest elevated as though by instinct, but when she came 
to the bottom of the stairs she stopped short with a little 
groan. She knew very well that she had not a nickel to 
pay the fare. Her pockets were empty. All day she had 
eaten nothing, and her last coin had gone for the car which 
had brought her back from Broadway. And here she was 
on the other side of New York, in the region of low-class 
lodging houses, with the Bowery between her and Broad- 
way. She had neither the strength nor the courage to 
walk. With a half-stifled sob she took off her one re- 
maining ornament, a cheap enameled brooch, and 
entered a pawnbroker’s shop close to where she had 
been standing. 

“Will you give me something on this, please?” she 
asked, desperately. 

A man who seemed to be sorting a pile of ready-made 
coats, paused in his task for a moment, took the ornament 
into his hand, and threw it contemptuously upon the 
counter. 

“Not worth anything,” he answered. 

“But it must be worth something,” Beatrice protested. 
“I only want a very little.” 

Something in her voice compelled the man’s attention. 
He looked at her white face. 

“What’s the trouble?” he inquired. 

“I must get up to Fifth Avenue somehow,” she declared. 
“I can’t walk and I haven’t a nickel.” 

He pushed the brooch back to her and threw a dime 
upon the counter. 

“Well,” he said, '‘you don’t look fit to walk, and that’s 


FOR ALWAYS 


353 

a fact, but the brooch is n’t worth entering up. There’s 
a dime for you. Now git, please, I’m busy.” 

Beatrice clutched the coin and, almost forgetting to 
thank him, found her way up the iron stairs on to the 
platform of the elevated. Soon she was seated in the train, 
rattling and shaking on its way through the slums into 
the heart of the wonderful city. There was only one thing 
left for her to try, a thing which she had had in her mind 
for days. Yet she found herself, even now she was com- 
mitted to it, thinking of what lay before her with some- 
thing like black horror. It was her last resource, indeed. 
Strong though she was, she knew by many small signs 
that her strength was almost at an end. The days and 
weeks of disappointments, the long fruitless trudges from 
office to office, the heart-sickness of constant refusals, 
poor food, the long fasts, had all told their tale. She was 
attractive enough still. Her pallor seemed to have given 
her a wonderful delicacy. The curve of her lips and the 
soft light in her gray eyes, were still as potent as ever. 
When she thought, though, what a poor asset her appear- 
ance had been, the color flamed in her cheeks. 

In Broadway she made her way to a very magnificent 
block of buildings, and passing inside took the lift to the 
seventh floor. Here she got out and knocked timidly at a 
glass-paneled door, on which was inscribed the name of Mr. 
Anthony Cruxhall. A very superior young man bade 
her enter and inquired her business. 

“I wish to see Mr. Cruxhall for a moment, privately,” 
she said. “I shall not detain him for more than a minute. 
My name is Franklin — Miss Beatrice Franklin,” 

The young man’s lips seemed about to shape themselves 
into a whistle, but something in the girl’s face made him 
change his mind. 


354 the tempting OF TAVERNAKE 

“I guess the boss is in/’ he admitted. “He’s just got 
back from a big meeting, but I am not sure about his 
seeing any one to-day. However, I ’ll tell him that you ’re 
here.” 

He disappeared into an inner room. Presently he came 
out again and held the door open. 

“Will you walk right in. Miss Franklin?” he invited. 

Beatrice went in bravely enough, but her knees began 
to tremble when she found herself in the presence of the 
man she had come to visit. Mr. Anthony Cruxhall was 
not a pleasant-looking person. His cheeks were fat and 
puffy, he wore a diamond ring upon the finger of his too- 
white hand, and a diamond pin in his somewhat flashily 
arranged necktie. He was smoking a black cigar, which 
he omitted to remove from between his teeth as he wel- 
comed his visitor. 

“ So you ’ve come to see me at last, little Miss Beatrice ! ” 
he said, with a particularly unpleasant smile. “Come 
and sit down here by the side of me. That’s right, eh? 
Now what can I do for you?” 

Beatrice was trembling all over. The man’s eyes were 
hateful, his smile was hideous. 

“I have not a — cent in the world, Mr. Cruxhall,” she 
faltered, “I cannot get an engagement, I have been turned 
out of my rooms, and I am hungry. My father always 
told me that you would be a friend if at any time it 
happened that I needed help. I am very sorry to 
have to come and beg, yet that is what I am doing. 
Will you lend or give me ten or twenty dollars, so 
that I can go on for a little longer? Or will you 
help me to get a place among some of your theatrical 
people? ” 

Mr. Cruxhall puffed steadily at his cigar for a moment. 


FOR ALWAYS 355 

and leaning back in his chair thrust his hand into his 
trousers’ pocket. 

“So bad as that, is it?” he remarked. “So bad as 
that, eh?” 

“It is very bad indeed,” she answered, looking at him 
quietly, “or you know that I should not have come to 
you.” 

Mr. Cruxhall smiled. 

“I remember the last time we talked together,” he 
said, “we did n’t get on very well. Too high and mighty 
in those days, weren’t you, Miss Beatrice? Wouldn’t 
have anything to say to a bad lot like Anthony Cruxhall. 
You’re having to come to it, eh?” 

She began to tremble again, but she held herself in. 

“I must live,” she murmured. “Give me a little money 
and let me go away.” 

He laughed. 

“Oh, I’ll do better than that for you,” he answered, 
thrusting his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drawing 
out a pile of dollar bills. “Let’s look at you. Gee whiz! 
Yes, you’re shabby, are n’t you? Take this,” he went on, 
slamming some notes down before her. “Go and get 
yourself a new frock and a hat fit to wear, and meet me 
at the Madison Square roof garden at eight o’clock. We ’ll 
have some dinner and I guess we can fix matters up.” 

Then he smiled at her again, and Beatrice, whose hand 
was already upon the bills, suddenly felt her knees shake. 
A great black horror was upon her. She turned and fied 
out of the room, past the astonished clerk, into the lift, 
and was downstairs on the main floor before she remem- 
bered where she was, what she had done. The clerk, 
after gazing at her retreating form, hurried into the inner 
oflSce. 


356 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Young woman hasn’t bolted with anything, eh?” 
he asked. 

Mr. Cruxhall smiled wickedly. 

“Why, no,” he replied, “I guess she’ll come back! ” 

Tavemake left the meeting on that same afternoon with 
his future practically assured for life. He had been ap- 
pointed surveyor to the company at a salary of ten thou- 
sand dollars a year, and the mine in which his savings were 
invested was likely to return him his small capital a hundred- 
fold. Very kind things had been said of him and to him. 

Pritchard and he had left the place together. When 
they had reached the street, they paused for a moment. 

“I am going to make a call near here,” Pritchard said. 
“Don’t forget that we are dining together, unless you 
find something better to do, and in the meantime ” — 
he took a card from his pocket and handed it to Taver- 
nake — “I don’t know whether I am a fool or not to give 
you this,” he added. “However, there it is. Do as you 
choose about it.” 

He walked away a httle abruptly. Tavernake glanced 
at the address upon the card: 1134, East Third Street. 
For a moment he was puzzled. Then the light broke 
in upon him suddenly. His heart gave a leap. He 
turned back into the place to ask for some directions and 
once more stopped short. Down the stone corridor, like 
one who flies from some hideous fate, came a slim black 
figure, with white face and set, horrified stare. Tavernake 
held out his hands and she came to him with a great 
wondering sob. 

“Leonard!” she cried. “Leonard!” 

“There’s no doubt about me,” he answered, quickly. 
“Am I such a very terrifying object?” 


FOR ALWAYS 357 

She stood quite still and struggled hard. By and by 
the giddiness passed. 

“Leonard,” she murmured, “I am ill.” 

Then she began to smile. 

“It is too absurd,” she faltered, “but you’ve got to 
do it all over again.”’ 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“Get me something to eat at once,” she begged. “I 
am starving. Somewhere where it’s cool. Leonard, how 
wonderful! I never even knew that you were in New 
York.” 

He called a carriage and took her off to a roof garden. 
There, as it was early, they got a seat near the parapet. 
Tavernake talked clumsily about himself most of the 
time. There was a lump in his throat. He felt all the 
while that tragedy was very near. By degrees, though, 
as she ate and drank, the color came back to her cheeks, 
the fear of a breakdown seemed to pass away. She became 
even cheerful. 

“We are really the most amazing people, Leonard,” 
she declared. “You stumbled into my life once before 
when I was on the point of being turned out of my rooms. 
You’ve come into it again and you find me once more 
homeless. Don’t spend too much money upon our dinner, 
for I warn you that I am going to borrow from you.” 

He laughed. 

“That’s good news,” he remarked, “but I’m not sure 
that I’m going to lend anything.” 

He leaned across the table. Their dinner had taken 
long in preparing and the dusk was falling now. Over 
them were the stars, the band was playing soft music, 
the hubbub of the streets lay far below. Almost they 
were in a little world by themselves. 


358 THE TEMPTING OF TAVERNAKE 

“Dear Beatrice,” he said, “three times I asked you to 
marry me and you would not, and I asked you because 
I was a selfish brute, and because I knew that it was 
good for me and that it would save me from things of 
which I was afraid. And now I am asking you the same 
thing again, but I have a bigger reason, Beatrice. I have 
been alone most of the last two years, I have lived the 
sort of life which brings a man face to face with the truth, 
helps him to know himself and others, and I have found 
out something.” 

“Yes?” she faltered. “Tell me, Leonard.” 

“I found out that it was you I cared for always,” he 
continued, “and that is why I am asking you to marry 
me now, Beatrice, only this time I ask you because I love 
you, and because no one else in the world could ever take 
your place or be anything at all to me.” 

“Leonard!” she murmured. 

“You are not sorry that I have said this?” he begged. 

She opened her eyes again. 

“I always prayed that I might hear you say it,” she 
answered, “but it seems — oh, it seems so one-sided! 
Here am I starving and penniless, and you — you, I 
suppose, are well on the way towards the success you 
worshiped.” 

“I am well on the way,” he said, earnestly, “towards 
something greater, Beatrice. I am well on the way to- 
wards understanding what success really is, what things 
count and what don’t. I have even found out,” he whis- 
pered, “the thing which counts for more than anything 
else in the world, and now that I have found it out, I 
shall never let it go again.” 

He pressed her hand and she looked across the table at 
him with swimming eyes. The waiter, who had been 


FOR ALWAYS 


359 


approaching, turned discreetly away. The band started 
to play a fresh tune. From down in the streets came the 
clanging of the cars. A curious, cosmopolitan murmur 
of sounds, but between those two there was the wonderful 
silence. 







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